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MODERN     ENGLISH 

PROSE 

SELECTED   AND   EDITED 
BY  . 
GEORGE   RICE   CARPENTER 

AND  ■ 

WILLIAM    TENNEY    BREWSTER 

PROFESSORS   IN   COLUMBIA   UNIVERSITY 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

LONDON:    MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 
1907 

All  rights  reserved 

711  A^.  I  Sc>  D 


Copyright,  1904, 
By  the  MACMILLAN   COMPANY. 


Set  up,  electrotyped,  and  published  January,  1904.      Reprinted 
April, October,  1904  ;  January,  1905;  January,  October.  1906;  January, 
1907. 


30  I 


PREFACE 

Our  aim  in  compiling  this  volume  has  been  to  present 
the  largest  possible  amount  of  illustrative  material  for 
classes  in  rhetoric  and  English  composition.  In  propor- 
tion as  the  secondary  teaching  of  English  becomes  more 
adequate,  the  need  of  instructing  freshmen  in  elementary- 
rhetorical  principles  tends  to  disappear,  and  with  it  much 
of  the  importance  of  a  text-book  of  rhetoric.  Even  where 
the  text-book  cannot  be  dispensed  with  altogether,  the 
experienced  teacher  will  wish  to  have  it  supplemented  as 
much  as  possible  by  the  reading  and  study  of  good  models. 
Practically,  as  we  have  all  found,  this  must  be  done  by 
using  a  volume  of  illustrative  material.  But  the  available 
books  of  this  sort  are  few.  They  contain  comparatively 
little  matter,  and  this  matter  consists  mainly  of  short 
extracts,  often  illustrative  only  of  one  special  form  of 
cohiposition.  Our  aim  has  been  to  present  a  rich  store 
of  material  in  complete  essays,  stories,  chapters,  or  com- 
ponent parts  of  larger  works,  to  provide  illustration  for 
all  the  main  forms  of  composition,  and  to  offer  as  little 
annotation  and  explanation  as  possible.  The  notes  and 
questions  at  the  end  of  the  volume  are  merely  suggestive, 
and  though  the  book  may  be  used  by  itself,  it  can  also  be 


VI  PREFACE 


made  supplementary  to  any  of  the  standard  treatises  on 
rhetoric. 

The  selections  are  complete  and  unabridged  in  every 
case,  except  that  of  Hudson's  Plains  of  Patagonia,  where 
a  short  excursus  was  omitted.  The  texts  are,  so  far  as 
possible,  based  upon  first  or  standard  editions.  Foot- 
notes in  brackets  are  those  of  the  compilers.  Foot-notes 
not  in  brackets  are  those  of  the  original  authors.  To 
economize  space  we  have,  however,  omitted  authors'  foot- 
notes when  they  consisted  merely  of  bibliographical  refer- 
ences or  similar  unessential  matter. 

G.  R.  C. 
W.  T.  B. 

January,  1904. 


CONTENTS 


Byzantium 

The  Yosemite  Valley  .         ... 
Landor's  Cottage 

St.  Mark's 

The  Plains  of  Patagonia 

The  World's  End 

Wee  Willie  Winkie 

The  Cask  of  Amontillado     . 

Ethan  Brand        .         .         .         . 

Markheim 

Among  the  Corn-rows 
The  Lad  in  the  Hemp-field  . 
The  Miracle  of  the  Peach  Tree     . 
A  Dog  and  his  Master 
The  Combat  in  the  Desert  . 
David  and  the  Ark 
Pendennis  Falls  in  Love 
A  Voice  from  the  Past 
An  Impetuous  Lover    . 
The  Civil  War     .         .         .         . 
Braddock's  Defeat 
The  Storming  of  the  Bastille 
Queen  Elizabeth  .         .         .         . 
National  Characteristics  as  mould- 
ing Public  Opinion 


PAGE 

Edward  Gibbon     ...         I 

Josiali  Divight  Whitney  .         5 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  .        .         .18 

John  Ruskin  .         .         •       -S 

IV.  H.  Htidsoft     ...       30 

George  Borrow     .         .        -2)7 

Rjidyard  Kipling  ...       42 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  .         .         .52 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne  .         .       59 

Robert  Lords  Stevenson  .      75 

Hamlin  Garland  ...       92 

Jafnes  Lane  Allen  .         .105 

Maurice  Hewlett  .         .         .108 

Jack  London  .         .         .113 

Walter  Scott  .         .         .123 

Charles  Dickens    .         .         .130 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray   1 44 

George  Eliot  .         .        -155 

George  Meredith   .         .         .165 

Thomas  Babington  Macaiday     175 

Francis  Park  man  .         .     188 

Thomas  Carlyle     .         .         .198 

Jolin  Richard  Green      .         .     206 

Janies  Bryce .         .         .         .215 
vii 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


The  Origin  of  the  Yosemite  Valley 
On  a  Piece  of  Chalk     . 
Glacier  Ice  .         .         .         , 
Learned  Words  and  PopularWords 

Sweetness  and  Light    . 

Ornate  Art  . 

Charles  Lamb 

The  Pathetic  Fallacy   . 

Knowledge  viewed  in  Relation  to 

Professional  Skill  . 
The  American  Scholar 
Where  I  Lived,  and  What  I  Lived 

for         .         .         . 
The  Gettysburg  Address 
Second  Inaugural  Address 
Civil  Liberty 
Nil  Nisi  Bonum   . 
The  Hero  as  Poet 
Mrs.  Battle's  Opinions  on  Whist 
The  Vision  of  Sudden  Death 
An  Apology  for  Idlers 


Josiah  Dwight  Whitney 

Thomas  Henry  Huxley 
John  Tyndall 
James  Bradstreet  Greenoitgh 

and  George  Lyman  Kittredge 

Matthew  Arnold  . 

Walter  Bagehot     .  • 

Walter  Bater 
John  Riiskin 

John  Henry  Newman    . 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 

Henry  David  Thoreau  . 
Abraham  Lincoln 
Abraham  Lincoln 
Johti  Stuart  Mill  . 
William  Makepeace  Thackeray 
Thomas  Carlyle 
Charles  Lajnb 
Thomas  De  Quincey 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


Notes  and  Questions 


PAGE 
226 
232 
254 

260 
267 
291 

314 

330 
351 

370 
384 
385 
387 
401 
410 

431 

438 

455 
465 


MODERN    ENGLISH    PROSE 


e>,'Q    Z^'? 


BYZANTIUM 

EDWARD   GIBBON 

/  9/61 

[From  chapter  xvii  of  The  History  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman 
Empire,  1781.     The  text  is  that  of  Bury's  edition.] 

If  we  survey  Byzantium  in  the  extent  which  it  acquired  with 
the  august  name  of  Constantinople,  the  figure  of  the  Imperial 
city  may  be  represented  under  that  of  an  unequal  triangle.  The 
obtuse  point,  which  advances  towards  the  east  and  the  shores  of 
Asia,  meets  and  repels  the  waves  of  the  Thracian  Bosphorus. 
The  northern  side  of  the  city  is  bounded  by  the  harbour ;  and 
the  southern  is  washed  by  the  Propontis,  or  Sea  of  Marmara. 
The  basis  of  the  triangle  is  opposed  to  the  west,  and  terminates 
the  continent  of  Europe,  But  the  admirable  form  and  division 
of  the  circumjacent  land  and  water  cannot,  without  a  more  ample 
explanation,  be  clearly  or  sufficiently  understood. 

The  winding  channel  through  which  the  waters  of  the  Euxine 
V     flow  with  a  rapid  and  incessant  course  towards  the  Mediterranean 
x^   ^  received  the  appellation  of  Bosphorus,  a  name  not  less  celebrated 
I      in  the  history  than  in  the  fables  of  antiquity.    A  crowd  of  temples 
v^    and  of  votive  altars,  profusely  scattered  along  its  steep  and  woody 
>      banks,  attested  the  unskilfulness,  the  terrors,  and  the  devotion  of 
^J     the  Grecian  navigators,  who,  after  the  example  of  the  Argonauts, 
explored  the  dangers  of  the  inhospitable  Euxine.     On  these  banks 
tradition  long  preserved  the  memory  of  the  palace  of  Phineus,  in- 
fested by  the  obscene  harpies ;  and  of  the  sylvan  reign  of  Amy- 
cus,  who  defied  the  son  of  Leda  to  the  combat  of  the  Cestus. 
The  straits  of   the   Bosphorus  are  terminated   by  the    Cyanean 
rocks,  which,  according  to  the  description  of  the  poets,  had  once 
floated  on  the  face  of  the  waters,  and  were  destined  by  the  gods 
to  protect  the  entrance  of  the  Euxine  against  the  eye  of  profane 
curiosity.     From  the  Cyanean  rocks  to  the  point  and  harbour  of 

6  I 


2     -  BYZANTIUM 

Byzantium,  the  winding  length  of  the  Bosphorus  extends  about 
sixteen  miles,  and  its  most  ordinary  breadth  may  be  computed  at 
about  one  mile  and  a  half.  The  neiv  castles  of  Europe  and  Asia 
are  constructed,  on  either  continent,  upon  the  foundations  of  two 
celebrated  temples,  of  Serapis  and  of  Jupiter  Urius.  The  old 
castles,  a  work  of  the  Greek  emperors,  command  the  narrowest 
part  of  the  channel,  in  a  place  where  the  opposite  banks  advance 
within  five  hundred  paces  of  each  other.  These  fortresses  were 
restored  and  strengthened  by  Mahomet  the  Second,  when  he 
meditated  the  siege  of  Constantinople :  but  the  Turkish  con- 
queror was  most  probably  ignorant  that,  near  two  thousand  years 
before  his  reign,  Darius  had  chosen  the  same  situation  to  connect 
the  two  continents  by  a  bridge  of  boats.  At  a  small  distance 
from  the  old  castles  we  discover  the  little  town  of  Chrysopolis, 
or  Scutari,  which  may  almost  be  considered  as  the  Asiatic  suburb 
of  Constantinople.  The  Bosphorus,  as  it  begins  to  "open  into  the 
Propontis,  passes  between  Byzantium  and  Chalcedon.  The  latter 
of  these  cities  was  built  by  the  Greeks,  a  few  years  before  the 
former;  and  the  blindness  of  its  founders,  who  overlooked  the 
superior  advantages  of  the  opposite  coast,  has  been  stigmatized  by 
a  proverbial  expression  of  contempt. 

The  harbour  of  Constantinople,  which  may  be  considered  as 
an  arm  of  the  Bosphorus,  obtained,  in  a  very  remote  period,  the 
denomination  of  the  Golden  Horn.  The  curve  which  it  describes 
might  be  compared  to  the  horn  of  a  stag,  or,  as  it  should  seem, 
with  more  propriety,  to  that  of  an  ox.  The  epithet  of  golden  was 
expressive  of  the  riches  which  every  wind  wafted  from  the  most 
distant  countries  into  the  secure  and  capacious  port  of  Constanti- 
nople. The  river  Lycus,  formed  by  the  conflux  of  two  little 
streams,  pours  into  the  harbour  a  perpetual  supply  of  fresh  water, 
which  serves  to  cleanse  the  bottom  and  to  invite  the  periodical 
shoals  of  fish  to  seek  their  retreat  in  that  convenient  recess.  As 
the  vicissitudes  of  tides  are  scarcely  felt  in  those  seas,  the  constant 
depth  of  the  harbour  allows  goods  to  be  landed  on  the  quays 
without  the  assistance  of  boats ;  and  it  has  been  observed  that 
in  many  places  the  largest  vessels  may  rest  their  prows  against 
the  houses,  while  their  sterns  are  floating  in  the  water.  From  the 
mouth  of  the  Lycus  to  that  of  the  harbour  this  arm  of  the  Bos- 


EDWARD    GIBBON  3 

phorus  is  more  than  seven  miles  in  length.  The  entrance  is  about 
five  hundred  yards  broad,  and  a  strong  chain  could  be  occasionally 
drawn  across  it  to  guard  the  port  and  city  from  the  attack  of  an 
hostile  navy. 

Between  the  Bosphorus  and  the  Hellespont,  the  shores  of 
Europe  and  Asia  receding  on  either  side  enclose  the  sea  of  Mar- 
mara, which  was  known  to  the  ancients  by  the  denomination 
of  Propontis,  The  navigation  from  the  issue  of  the  Bosphorus  to 
the  entrance  of  the  Hellespont  is  about  120  miles.  Those  who 
steer  their  westward  course  through  the  middle  of  the  Propontis 
may  at  once  descry  the  high  lands  of  Thrace  and  Bithynia,  and 
never  lose  sight  of  the  lofty  summit  of  Mount  Olympus,  covered 
with  eternal  snows.  They  leave  on  the  left  a  deep  gulf,  at  the 
bottom  of  which  Nicomedia  was  seated,  the  imperial  residence  of 
Diocletian ;  and  they  pass  the  small  islands  of  Cyzicus  and  Pro- 
connesus  before  they  cast  anchor  at  Gallipoli  j  where  the  sea, 
which  separates  Asia  from  Europe,  is  again  contracted  into  a 
narrow  channel. 

The  geographers  who,  with  the  most  skilful  accuracy,  have  sur- 
veyed the  form  and  extent  of  the  Hellespont,  assign  about  sixty 
miles  for  the  winding  course,  and  about  three  miles  for  the  ordi- 
nary breadth  of  those  celebrated  straits.  But  the  narrowest  part 
of  the  channel  is  found  to  the  northward  of  the  old  Turkish 
castles  between  the  cities  of  Sestus  and  Abydus.  It  was  here 
that  the  adventurous  Leander  braved  the  passage  of  the  flood  for 
the  possession  of  his  mistress.  It  was  here  likewise,  in  a  place 
where  the  distance  between  the  opposite  banks  cannot  exceed 
500  paces,  that  Xerxes  imposed  a  stupendous  bridge  of  boats, 
for  the  purpose  of  transporting  into  Europe  170  myriads  of 
barbarians.  A  sea  contracted  within  such  narrow  limits  may 
seem  but  ill  to  deserve  the  singular  epithet  of  broad,  which 
Homer,  as  well  as  Orpheus,  has  frequently  bestowed  on  the 
Hellespont.  But  our  ideas  of  greatness  are  of  a  relative  nature  : 
the  traveller,  and  especially  the  poet,  who  sailed  along  the  Helles- 
pont, who  pursued  the  windings  of  the  stream,  and  contemplated 
the  rural  scenery,  which  appeared  on  every  side  to  terminate  the 
prospect,  insensibly  lost  the  remembrance  of  the  sea ;  and  his 
fancy  painted  those  celebrated  straits  with  all  the  attributes  of  a 


4  Byzantium 

mighty  river  flowing  with  a  swift  current,  in  the  midst  of  a  woody 
and  inland  country,  and  at  length,  through  a  wide  mouth,  dis- 
charging itself  into  the  ^gean  or  Archipelago.  Ancient  Troy, 
seated  on  an  eminence  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Ida,  overlooked  the 
mouth  of  the  Hellespont,  which  scarcely  received  an  accession  of 
waters  from  the  tribute  of  those  immortal  rivulets  Simois  and 
Scamander.  The  Grecian  camp  had  stretched  twelve  miles  along 
the  shore,  from  the  Sigsean  to  the  Rhoetean  promontory  ;  and  the 
flanks  of  the  army  were  guarded  by  the  bravest  chiefs  who  fought 
under  the  banners  of  Agamemnon.  The  first  of  those  promon- 
tories was  occupied  by  Achilles  with  his  invincible  Myrmidons, 
and  the  dauntless  Ajax  pitched  his  tents  on  the  other.  After 
Ajax  had  fallen  a  sacrifice  to  his  disappointed  pride  and  to  the 
ingratitude  of  the  Greeks,  his  sepulchre  was  erected  on  the 
ground  where  he  had  defended  the  navy  against  the  rage  of  Jove 
and  of  Hector ;  and  the  citizens  of  the  rising  town  of  Rhceteum 
celebrated  his  memory  with  divine  honours.  Before  Constantine 
gave  a  just  preference  to  the  situation  of  Byzantium,  he  had  con- 
ceived the  design  of  erecting  the  seat  of  empire  on  this  cele- 
brated spot,  from  whence  the  Romans  derived  their  fabulous 
origin.  The  extensive  plain  which  lies  below  ancient  Troy, 
towards  the  Rhoetean  promontory  and  the  tomb  of  Ajax,  was  first 
chosen  for  his  new  capital ;  and,  though  the  undertaking  was  soon 
relinquished,  the  stately  remains  of  unfinished  walls  and  towers 
attracted  the  notice  of  all  who  sailed  through  the  straits  of  the 
Hellespont. 

We  are  at  present  qualified  to  view  the  advantageous  position 
of  Constantinople,  which  appears  to  have  been  formed  by  Nature 
for  the  centre  and  capital  of  a  great  monarchy.  Situated  in  the 
forty-first  degree  of  latitude,  the  imperial  city  commanded,  from 
her  seven  hills,  the  opposite  shores  of  Europe  and  Asia ;  the  cli- 
mate was  healthy  and  temperate,  the  soil  fertile,  the  harbour  secure 
and  capacious  ;  and  the  approach  on  the  side  of  the  continent  was 
of  small  extent  and  easy  defence.  The  Bosphorus  and  the  Helles- 
pont may  be  considered  as  the  two  gates  of  Constantinople ;  and 
the  prince  who  possessed  those  important  passages  could  always 
shut  them  against  a  naval  enemy  and  open  them  to  the  fleets  of 
commerce.     The   preservation  of  the  eastern  provinces  may,  in 


EDWARD   GIBBON  5 

some  degree,  be  ascribed  to  the  policy  of  Constantine,  as  the  bar- 
barians of  the  Euxine,  who  in  the  preceding  age  had  poured  their 
armaments  into  the  heart  of  the  Mediterranean,  soon  desisted 
from  the  exercise  of  piracy,  and  despaired  of  forcing  this  insur- 
mountable barrier.  When  the  gates  of  the  Hellespont  and  Bos- 
phorus  were  shut,  the  capital  still  enjoyed,  within  their  spacious 
inclosure,  every  production  which  could  supply  the  wants,  or  gratify 
the  luxury,  of  its  numerous  inhabitants.  The  sea-coast  of  Thrace 
and  Bithynia,  which  languish  under  the  weight  of  Turkish  oppres- 
sion, still  exhibits  a  rich  prospect  of  vineyards,  of  gardens,  and  of 
plentiful  harvests ;  and  the  Propontis  has  ever  been  renowned  for 
an  inexhaustible  store  of  the  most  exquisite  fish,  that  are  taken  in 
their  stated  seasons  without  skill,  and  almost  without  labour.  But, 
when  the  passages  of  the  Straits  were  thrown  open  for  trade,  they 
alternately  admitted  the  natural  and  artificial  riches  of  the  north 
and  south,  of  the  Euxine,  and  of  the  Mediterranean.  Whatever 
rude  commodities  were  collected  in  the  forests  of  Germany  and 
Scythia,  as  far  as  the  sources  of  the  Tanais  and  the  Borysthenes ; 
whatsoever  was  manufactured  by  the  skill  of  Europe  or  Asia ;  the 
corn  of  Egypt,  and  the  gems  and  spices  of  the  farthest  India,  were 
brought  by  the  varying  winds  into  the  port  of  Constantinople, 
which,  for  many  ages,  attracted  the  commerce  of  the  ancient 
world. 

THE   YOSEMITE   VALLEY 

JOSIAH   DWIGHT  WHITNEY 
[From  The  Yosemite  Gtdde-Book,  1874.] 

The  Yosemite  Valley  is  nearly  in  the  centre  of  the  State  north 
and  south,  and  just  midway  between  the  east  and  west  bases  of 
the  Sierra,  here  a  little  over  seventy  miles  wide.  Its  shape  and 
position  will  be  best  understood  by  referring  to  the  maps  which 
accompany  this  volume.  One  of  these  is  a  reduction  of  a  map 
prepared  by  Mr.  Gardner  for  the  commissioners,  and  includ- 
ing only  the  Valley  and  its  immediate  surroundings ;  ^  the  other, 
from  the  surveys  of  Messrs.  Hoffmann  and  Gardner,  embraces  the 
^  [See  Notes,  at  the  end  of  the  volume.] 


6  THE    YO SEMITE   VALLEY 

Valley  and  the  region  adjacent  for  twenty  miles  in  each  direction. 
The  Valley  is  a  nearly  level  area,  about  six  miles  in  length  and 
from  half  a  mile  to  a  mile  in  width,  sunk  almost  a  mile  in  perpen- 
dicular depth  below  the  general  level  of  the  adjacent  region.  It 
may  be  roughly  hkened  to  a  gigantic  trough  hollowed  in  the 
mountains,  nearly  at  right  angles  to  the  irregular  trend ;  that  is  to 
say,  north  60°  east,  the  direction  of  the  axis  of  the  Sierra  being, 
as  before  stated,  north  31°  west.  This  trough,  as  will  be  seen  by 
reference  to  the  map,  is  quite  irregular,  having  several  reentering 
angles  and  square  recesses,  let  back,  as  it  were,  into  its  sides ; 
still,  a  general  northeast-by-easterly  direction  is  maintained  in  the 
depression,  until  we  arrive  near  its  upper  end,  when  it  turns 
sharply,  at  right  angles  almost,  and  soon  divides  into  three 
branches,  through  either  of  which  we  may,  going  up  a  series  of 
gigantic  steps,  as  it  vv^ere,  ascend  to  the  general  level  of  the 
Sierra.  Down  each  of  these  branches,  or  canons,  descend  streams,  - 
forks  of  the  Merced,  coming  down  the  steps  in  a  series  of  stupen- 
dous waterfalls.  At  its  lower  end,  the  Valley  contracts  into  a  nar- 
row gorge,  or  canon,  with  steeply  inclined  walls,  and  not  having 
the  U  shape  of  the  Yosemite,  but  the  usual  V  form  of  California 
valleys. 

The  principal  features  of  the  Yosemite,  and  those  by  which  it 
is  distinguished  from  all  other  known  valleys,  are  :  first,  the  near 
approach  to  verticality  of  its  walls ;  second,  their  great  height, 
not  only  absolutely,  but  as  compared  with  the  width  of  the  valley 
itself;  and,  finally,  the  very  small  amount  of  talus  or  debris  at  the 
base  of  these  gigantic  cliffs.  These  are  the  great  characteristics 
of  the  Yosemite  throughout  its  whole  length ;  but,  besides  these, 
there  are  many  other  striking  peculiarities,  and  features  both  of 
sublimity  and  beauty,  which  can  hardly  be  surpassed,  if  equalled, 
by  those  of  any  mountain  valleys  in  the  world.  Either  the  domes 
or  the  waterfalls  of  the  Yosemite,  or  any  single  one  of  them  even, 
would  be  sufficient  in  any  European  country  to  attract  travellers 
from  far  and  wide  in  all  directions.  Waterfalls  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  Yosemite,  surpassing  in  beauty  many  of  those  best  known  and 
most  visited  in  Europe,  are  actually  left  entirely  unnoticed  by 
travellers,  because  there  are  so  many  other  objects  of  interest  to 
be  visited  that  it  is  impossible  to  find  time  for  them  all. 


'^ 


JO  SI  AH  D  WIGHT    WHITNEY  7 

In  describing  the  Yosemite,  we  will  first  give  the  necessary 
details  in  regard  to  the  different  objects  of  interest  in  and  about 
the  Valley,  following  it  upward,  and  supposing  the  traveller  to  enter 
from  the  Mariposa  side.  In  doing  this,  we  will  point  out  the 
prominent  objects,  in  the  order  in  which  they  present  themselves, 
giving  the  statistics  of  their  elevation  and  dimensions,  so  far  as 
required  or  ascertained ;  after  this  has  been  done,  we  can  enter 
into  more  general  considerations  in  regard  to  the  Valley  and  its 
surroundings,  speaking  of  it  as  a  whole,  after  due  description  of 
its  parts. 

C  In  descending  the  Mariposa  trail,  a  steep  climb  of  2973  feet 
down  to  the  bottom  of  the  Valley,  the  traveller  has  presented  to 
him  a  succession  of  views,  all  of  which  range  over  the  whole  extent 
of  the  principal  valley,  revealing  its  dominant  features,  while  at 
each  new  point  of  view  he  is  brought  nearer  and,  as  it  were,  more 
face  to  face  with  these  gigantic  objects.  The  principal  points 
seen  present  themselves  as  follows  :  on  the  left  is  El  Capitan,  on 
the  right  the  Bridal  Veil  Fall,  coming  down  on  the  back  side  of 
the  Cathedral  Rock,  and  in  the  centre  the  view  of  the  Valley,  and 
beyond  into  the  cailon  of  the  Tenaya  Fork  of  the  Merced  ;  the 
point  of  the  Half  Dome  is  just  visible  over  the  ridge  of  which 
Sentinel  Rock  forms  a  part,  and  beyond  it,  in  the  farthest  distance, 
Cloud's  Rest  is  seen.  A  general  idea  of  the  Valley  can  be  well 
obtained  from  this  point  and  in  one  view ;  but,  as  we  ride  up 
between  the  walls,  new  objects  are  constantly  becoming  visible, 
which  at  the  lower  end  were  entirely  concealed. 

Of  the  cliffs  around  the  Valley,  El  Capitan  and  the  Half  Dome 
are  the  most  striking ;  the  latter  is  the  higher,  but  it  would  be 
difficult  to  say  which  conveys  to  the  mind  the  most  decided 
impression  of  grandeur  and  massiveness.  El  Capitan  is  an  immense 
block  of  granite,  projecting  squarely  out  into  the  Valley,  and  pre- 
senting an  almost  vertical  sharp  edge,  3300  feet  in  elevation. 
The  sides  or  walls  of  the  mass  are  bare,  smooth,  and  entirely 
destitute  of  vegetation.  It  is  almost  impossible  for  the  observer 
to  comprehend  the  enormous  dimensions  of  this  rock,  which  in 
clear  weather  can  be  distinctly  seen  from  the  San  Joaquin  plains, 
at  a  distance  of  fifty  or  sixty  miles.  Nothing,  however,  so  helps  to 
a  realization  of  the  magnitude  of  these  masses  about  the  Yosemite 


8  THE    YO SEMITE    VALLEY 

as  climbing  around  and  among  them.  Let  the  visitor  begin  to 
ascend  the  pile  of  debris  which  Hes  at  the  base  of  El  Capitan, 
and  he  will  soon  find  his  ideas  enlarged  on  the  point  in  question. 
And  yet  these  debris  piles  along  the  cliffs,  and  especially  under  El 
Capitan,  are  of  insignificant  size  compared  with  the  dimensions 
of  the  solid  wall  itself.  They  are  hardly  noticeable  in  taking  a 
general  view  of  the  Valley.  El  Capitan  imposes  on  us  by  its 
stupendous  bulk,  which  seems  as  if  hewed  from  the  mountains  on 
purpose  to  stand  as  the  type  of  eternal  massiveness.  It  is  doubt- 
ful if  anywhere  in  the  world  there  is  presented  so  squarely  cut,  so 
lofty,  and  so  imposing  a  face  of  rock. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  Valley  we  have  the  Bridal  Veil  Fall, 
unquestionably  one  of  the  most  beautiful  objects  in  the  Yosemite. 
It  is  formed  by  the  creek  of  the  same  name,  which  rises  a  few 
miles  east  of  Empire  Camp,  runs  through  the  meadows  at  West- 
fall's,  and  is  finally  precipitated  over  the  cliffs,  on  the  west  side  of 
Cathedral  Rock,  into  the  Yosemite,  in  one  leap  of  630  feet  per- 
pendicular. The  water  strikes  here  on  a  sloping  pile  of  debris, 
down  which  it  rushes  in  a  series  of  cascades,  for  a  perpendicular 
distance  of  nearly  300  feet  more,  the  total  height  of  the  edge  of 
the  fall  above  the  meadow  at  its  base  being  900  feet.  The  effect 
of  the  fall,  as  everywhere  seen  from  the  Valley,  is  as  if  it  were  900 
feet  in  vertical  height,  its  base  being  concealed  by  the  trees  which 
surround  it.  The  quantity  of  water  in  the  Bridal  Veil  Fall  varies 
greatly  with  the  season.  In  May  and  June  the  amount  is  gener- 
ally at  the  maximum,  and  it  gradually  decreases  as  the  summer 
advances.  The  effect,  however,  is  finest  when  the  body  of  water 
is  not  too  heavy,  since  then  the  swaying  from  side  to  side,  and  the 
waving  under  the  varying  pressure  of  the  wind,  as  it  strikes  the 
long  column  of  water,  is  more  marked.  As  seen  from  a  distance 
at  such  times,  it  seems  to  flutter  like  a  white  veil,  producing  an 
indescribably  beautiful  effect.  The  name  "  Bridal  Veil  "  is  poeti- 
cal, but  fairly  appropriate.  The  stream  which  supplies  this  fall 
heads  low  down  in  the  Sierra,  far  below  the  region  of  eternal  snow  ; 
hence,  as  summer  advances,  the  supply  of  water  is  rapidly  dimin- 
ished, and  by  the  middle  or  end  of  July  there  is  only  a  small 
streamlet  trickling  down  the  vertical  face  of  the  rock,  over  which 
it  is  precipitated  in  a  bold  curve  when  the  quantity  of  water  is 


JOSIAH  D WIGHT    WHITNEY  g 

larger.  At  the  highest  stage,  the  stream  divides  into  a  dozen 
streamlets  at  the  base  of  the  fall,  several  of  which  are  only  just 
fordable  on  horseback. 

The  Virgin's  Tears  Creek,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Valley,  and 
directly  opposite  the  Bridal  Veil,  makes  also  a  fine  fall,  over  a 
thousand  feet  high,  included  in  a  deep  recess  of  the  rocks  near 
the  lower  corner  of  El  Capitan.  This  is  a  beautiful  fall  as  long  as 
it  lasts ;  but  the  stream  which  produces  it  dries  up  early  in  the 
season.  In  quantity  of  water,  elevation,  and  general  effect,  this 
fall,  hardly  spoken  of  at  the  Yosemite  among  so  many  grander 
ones,  is  far  superior  to  the  celebrated  Staubbach  of  Switzerland. 

Proceeding  up  the  Valley,  we  find  on  the  same  side  as  the 
Bridal  Veil,  and  a  little  above  it,  the  prominent  and  massively 
sculptured  pile  of  granite,  to  which  the  name  of  Cathedral  Rock 
has  been  given.  In  this  view  the  Merced  River  occupies  the 
foreground ;  the  trees  in  the  middle  ground  are  pitch  pines  from 
125  to  150  feet  high,  and  those  which  seem  to  fringe  the  summit 
of  Cathedral  Rock  like  small  bushes  are,  in  reality,  firs  and  pines 
as  tall  as  those  in  the  valley,  or  even  taller.  Cathedral  Rock  is 
not  so  high  nor  so  massive  as  El  Capitan,  nor  are  its  sides  quite 
so  nearly  vertical.  The  summit  is  2660  feet  above  the  Valley. 
Just  beyond  Cathedral  Rock,  on  the  same  side,  are  the  graceful 
pinnacles  of  rock  called  "The  Spires."  These  spires  are  isolated 
columns  of  granite,  at  least  500  feet  high,  standing  out  from,  but 
connected  at  the  base  with,  the  walls  of  the  Valley.  They  are 
kept  in  obscurity,  or  brought  out  into  wonderful  relief,  according 
to  the  different  way  the  light  or  shadow  falls  upon  them.  The 
whole  side  of  the  Valley,  along  this  part  of  it,  is  fantastically  but 
exquisitely  carved  out  into  forms  of  gigantic  proportions,  which 
anywhere  else,  except  in  the  Yosemite,  would  be  considered 
objects  of  the  greatest  interest.  From  one  point  of  view  these 
spires  appear  symmetrical,  of  equal  height,  squarely  cut,  and  ris- 
ing above  the  edge  of  the  cliff  behind  exactly  like  two  towers  of 
a  Gothic  cathedral. 

The  next  prominent  object,  in  going  up  the  Valley,  is  the  triple 
group  of  rocks  known  as  the  Three  Brothers.  These  rise  in  steps 
one  behind  the  other,  the  highest  being  3830  feet  above  the 
valley.     From  the  summit  of  this   there  is  a  superb  view  of  the 


10  THE    YO SEMITE    VALLEY 

Valley  and  its  surroundings.  The  peculiar  outline  of  these  rocks 
as  seen  from  below,  resembling  three  frogs  sitting  with  their  heads 
turned  in  one  direction,  is  supposed  to  have  suggested  the  Indian 
name  Pompompasus,  which  means,  we  are  informed,  "  Leaping 
Frog  Rocks." 

Nearly  opposite  the  Three  Brothers  is  a  point  of  rocks  project- 
ing into  the  Valley,  the  termination  of  which  is  a  slender  mass  of 
granite,  having  something  the  shape  of  an  obelisk,  and  called,  from 
its  peculiar  position  or  from  its  resemblance  to  a  gigantic  watch- 
tower,  the  "  Sentinel  Rock."  The  obelisk  form  of  the  Sentinel 
continues  down  for  a  thousand  feet  or  more  from  its  summit ; 
below  that  it  is  united  with  the  wall  of  the  Valley.  Its  entire 
height  above  the  river  at  its  base  is  3043  feet.  This  is  one  of  the 
grandest  masses  of  rock  in  the  Yosemite. 

From  near  the  foot  of  Sentinel  Rock,  looking  directly  across 
the  Valley,  we  have  before  us  what  probably  most  persons  will 
admit  to  be,  if  not  the  most  stupendous,  at  least  the  most  attrac- 
tive feature  of  the  Yosemite;  namely,  "the  Yosemite  FaH"/ar 
excellence,  that  one  of  all  the  falls  about  the  Valley  which  is  best 
entitled  to  bear  that  name.  The  finest  view  of  this  fall  is  in  a 
group  of  oaks  near  the  Lower  Hotel,  from  which  point  the  various 
parts  seem  most  thoroughly  to  be  blended  into  one  whole  of  sur- 
prising attractiveness.  Even  the  finest  photograph  is,  however, 
utterly  inadequate  to  convey  to  the  mind  any  satisfactory  impres- 
sion or  realization  of  how  many  of  the  elements  of  grandeur  and 
beauty  are  combined  in  this  waterfall  and  its  surroundings  and 
accessories.  The  first  and  most  impressive  of  these  elements  is, 
as  in  all  other  objects  about  the  Yosemite,  vertical  height.  In 
this  it  surpasses,  it  is  believed,  any  waterfall  in  the  world  with  any- 
thing like  an  equal  body  of  water.  And  all  the  accessories  of 
this  fall  are  of  a  character  worthy  of,  and  commensurate  with,  its 
height,  so  that  everything  is  added  which  can  be  to  augment  the 
impression  which  the  descent  of  so  large  a  mass  of  water  from 
such  a  height  could  not  fail  by  itself  to  produce. 

The  Yosemite  Fall  is  formed  by  a  creek  of  the  same  name, 
which  heads  on  the  west  side  of  the  Mount  Hoffmann  Group, 
about  ten  miles  northeast  of  the  Valley.  Being  fed  by  melting 
snows   exclusively,   and  running   through   its  whole   course   over 


JO  SI  AH  D  WIGHT    WHITNE  Y  1 1 

almost  bare  granite  roclc,  its  volume  varies  greatly  at  different 
times  and  seasons,  according  to  the  amount  of  snow  remaining 
unmelted,  the  temperature  of  the  air,  and  the  clearness  or  cloudi- 
ness of  the  weather.  In  the  spring,  when  the  snow  first  begins  to 
melt  with  rapidity,  the  volume  of  water  is  very  great ;  as  ordinarily 
seen  by  visitors  in  the  most  favorable  portion  of  the  season,  —  say 
from  May  to  July,  —  the  quantity  is  still  sufficient  to  produce  a 
fine  effect ;  still  later,  it  shrinks  down  to  a  very  much  smaller 
volume.  We  estimated  the  size  of  the  stream  at  the  summit  of 
the  fall,  at  a  medium  stage  of  water,  to  be  twenty  feet  in  width 
and  two  feet  in  average  depth.  Mr.  J.  F.  Houghton  measured 
the  Yosemite  Creek  below  the  fall,  June  17,  1865,  and  found  it  to 
be  thirty-seven  feet  wide  and  twenty-five  inches  deep,  with  the 
velocity  of  about  a  mile  an  hour,  giving  about  half  a  million  cubic 
feet  as  passing  over  the  fall  in  an  hour.^  At  the  highest  stage  of 
water  there  is  probably  three  times  as  much  as  this.  The  vertical 
height  of  the  lip  of  the  fall  above  the  Valley  is,  in  round  num- 
bers, 2600  feet,  our  various  measurements  giving  from  2537  to 
2641,  the  discrepancies  being  due  to  the  fact  that  a  near  approach 
to,  or  a  precise  definition  of,  the  place  where  the  perpendicular 
portion  of  the  fall  commences  is  not  possible.  The  lip  or  edge 
of  the  fall  is  a  great  rounded  mass  of  granite,  polished  to  the  last 
degree,  on  which  it  was  found  to  be  a  very  hazardous  matter  to 
move.  A  difference  of  a  hundred  feet,  in  a  fall  of  this  height, 
would  be  entirely  imperceptible  to  most  eyes. 

The  fall  is  not  in  one  perpendicular  sheet.  There  is  fir'st  a 
vertical  descent  of  1500  feet,  when  the  water  strikes  on  what 
seems  to  be  a  projecting  ledge  ;  but  which,  in  reality,  is  a  shelf  or 
recess,  almost  a  third  of  a  mile  back  from  the  front  of  the  lower 
portion  of  the  cliff.  From  here  the  water  finds  its  way,  in  a  series 
of  cascades,  down  a  descent  equal  to  626  feet  perpendicular,  and 
then  gives  one  final  plunge  of  about  400  feet  on  to  a  low  talus  of 
rocks  at  the  base  of  the  precipice.  The  whole  arrangement  and 
succession  of  the  different  parts  of  the  fall  can  be  easily  under- 
stood by  ascending  to  the  base  of  the  Upper  Fall,  which  is  a  very 
interesting  and  not  a  difficult  climb,  or  from  Sentinel  Dome,  on 

1  Our  measurements  gave  about  220  cubic  feet  as  the  amount  of  water  passing 
over  tlie  fall  in  one  second. 


12  THE    YOSEMITE    VALLEY 

the  opposite  side  of  the  Valley,  where  the  spectator  is  at  a  con- 
siderable distance  above  its  edge.^  As  the  various  portions  of  the 
fall  are  nearly  in  one  vertical  plane,  the  effect  of  the  whole  is 
nearly  as  grand,  and  perhaps  even  more  picturesque,  than  it  would 
be  if  the  descent  were  made  in  one  leap  from  the  top  of  the  cliff 
to  the  level  of  the  Valley.  Nor  is  the  grandeur  or  beauty  of  the 
fall  perceptibly  diminished,  by  even  a  very  considerable  diminution 
of  the  quantity  of  water  from  its  highest  stage.  One  of  the  most 
striking  features  of  the  Yosemite  Fall  is  the  vibration  of  the  upper 
portion  from  one  side  to  the  other,  under  the  varying  pressure  of  the 
wind,  which  acts  with  immense  force  on  so  long  a  column.  The 
descending  mass  of  water  is  too  great  to  allow  of  its  being  entirely 
broken  up  into  spray ;  but  it  widens  out  very  much  towards  the 
bottom  —  probably  to  as  much  as  300  feet  at  high  water,  the 
space  through  which  it  moves  being  fully  three  times  as  wide. 
This  vibratory  motion  of  the  Yosemite  and  Bridal  Veil  falls  is 
something  peculiar,  and  not  observed  in  any  others,  so  far  as  we 
know ;  the  effect  of  it  is  indescribably  grand,  especially  under  the 
magical  illumination  of  the  full  moon. 

The  cliff  a  little  east  of  the  Yosemite  Fall  rises  in  a  bold  peak 
to  the  height  of  3030  feet  above  the  Valley ;  it  can  be  reached  up 
Indian  Canon,  a  little  farther  east,  and  from  this  point  a  magnifi- 
cent view  of  the  whole  region  can  be  obtained.  The  ascent  to  the 
summit  of  the  fall  and  the  return  to  the  Valley  can  be  made  in 
one  day,  and  without  difficulty,  by  the  trail  recently  built  up  this 
caRon.     It  was  formerly  a  very  hard  climb. 

Following  up  the  Valley  for  about  two  miles  above  the  Yosemite 
Falls,  we  find  that  the  main  portion  of  it  comes  to  an  end,  and 
that  it  suddenly  branches  out  in  three  distinct  but  much  narrower 
canons,  as  they  would  be  called  by  Californians,  each  of  which, 
however,  has  some  new  wonders  to  disclose.  The  Merced  River 
keeps  the  middle  one  of  these,  and  its  course  is  here  about  the 
same  that  it  was  below  or  nearly  west ;  it  holds  this  direction 
nearly  up  to  the  base  of  the  Mount  Lyell  Group,  where  it  heads, 
between  the  main  crest  of  the  Sierra  and  the  parallel  subordinate 
or  side  range  called  by  us  the  Merced  or  Obelisk  Group.     In  the 

1  The  exact  distance  from  the  Sentinel  Dome  across  in  a  straight  line  to  the 
edge  of  the  Upper  Yosemite  Fall  is  two  and  a  half  miles. 


JOSIAH  D WIGHT    WHITNEY  1 3 

left  hand,  or  northwesterly  canon,  the  Tenaya  Fork  of  the  Merced 
comes  down,  and  in  the  right  hand,  or  southwesterly  one,  the 
South  Fork  ^  or  the  Illilouette. 

At  the  angle  where  the  Yosemite  branches  we  have  on  the  north 
side  the  rounded,  columnar  mass  of  rock  called  the  Washington 
Column,  and  immediately  to  the  left  of  it  the  immense  arched 
cavity  called  the  "  Royal  Arches,"  and  over  these  is  seen  the  dome- 
shaped  mass  called  the  North  Dome.  This  is  one  of  those  rounded 
masses  of  granite  which  are  not  uncommon  in  the  Sierra  Nevada ; 
it  rises  to  an  elevation  of  3568  feet  above  the  Valley.  Such  dome- 
shaped  masses  are  somewhat  characteristic  of  all  granitic  regions, 
but  are  nowhere  developed  on  so  grand  a  scale  as  in  the  Sierra. 
An  examination  with  a  good  glass  will  show  that  the  North  Dome 
is  made  up  of  huge  concentric  plates  of  rock,  overlapping  each 
other  in  such  a  way  as  to  absolutely  prevent  an  ascent  on  the  side 
presented  to  the  Valley  ;  to  the  north,  however,  the  Dome  runs 
out  in  a  long  ridge,  as  represented  on  the  map,  and  from  that  side 
there  is  not  the  slightest  difficulty  in  getting  to  the  summit. 

The  concentric  structure  of  the  North  Dome  is  well  seen  in  the 
Royal  Arches,  which  are,  in  fact,  a  sort  of  appendage  to  its  base. 
This  peculiarity  of  structure  pervades  the  whole  mass  of  rock,  and 
it  is  evident  that  these  arches  have  been  formed  by  the  slipping 
down  of  immense  plates  of  granite,  the  size  of  the  cavity  thus  left 
being  enormous,  but  not  easily  measured.  The  arches  and  the 
column,  at  the  angle  of  the  main  valley  and  the  Tenaya  Cafion, 
seem  as  if  intended  to  form  a  base  of  adequate  magnitude  and 
grandeur  for  the  support  of  the  Dome  which  rests  upon  them. 

The  Half  Dome,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Tenaya  Caiion,  is 
the  loftiest  and  most  imposing  mass  of  those  considered  as  part 
of  the  Yosemite.  It  is  not  so  high  as  Cloud's  Rest,  but  the  latter 
seems  rather  to  belong  to  the  Sierra  than  to  the  Yosemite.  The 
Half  Dome  is  in  sight,  in  the  distance,  as  we  descend  the  Mariposa 
trail,  but  is  not  visible  in  the  lower  part  of  the  Valley  itself;  it  is 
seen  first  when  we  come  to  the  meadow  opposite  Hutching's.  It 
is  a  crest  of  granite,  rising  to  the  height  of  4737  feet  above  the 

1  This  is  the  "  South  Fork  of  the  Middle  Fork,"  and  not  tlie  main  South  Fork, 
which  flows  bv  Clark's  Ranch.  To  avoid  confusion,  it  will  be  well  to  call  it  by  the 
Indian  name,  Illilouette,  one  not  yet  mucli  in  use  in  the  Valley. 


14  THE    YO SEMITE    VALLEY 

Valley,  seeming  perfectly  inaccessible,  and  being  the  only  one  of 
all  the  prominent  points  about  the  Yosemite  which  never  has  been, 
and  perhaps  never  will  be,  trodden  by  human  feet.^  The  summit 
of  the  Half  Dome  runs  in  a  northeast  and  'southwest  direction, 
parallel  with  the  caiion ;  it  rises  on  the  southwest  side  with  a 
grand,  regular,  domelike  form,  but  falls  off  rapidly  in  a  series  of 
steps  as  it  descends  to  the  northeast.  At  right  angles  with  this, 
or  crosswise  of  the  mass,  the  section  is  very  pecuhar.  On  the  side 
fronting  Tenaya  Caiion  it  is  absolutely  vertical  for  1500  feet  or 
more  from  the  summit,  and  then  falls  off  with  a  very  steep  slope,  of 
probably  sixty  or  seventy  degrees,  to  the  bottom  of  the  canon.  This 
slope,  however,  is  not,  as  one  would  suppose,  a  talus  of  fragments 
fallen  from  above  ;  it  is  a  mass  of  granite  rock,  part  and  parcel  of 
the  solid  structure  of  the  Dome  ;  the  real  debris  pile  at  the  bottom 
is  absolutely  insignificant  in  dimensions  compared  with  the  Dome 
itself.  On  the  opposite  face  the  Half  Dome  is  not  absolutely  ver- 
tical ;  it  has  a  rounded  form  at  the  top,  and  grows  more  and  more 
steep  at  the  bottom.  The  whole  appearance  of  the  mass  is  that  of 
an  originally  dome-shaped  elevation,  with  an  exceedingly  steep 
curve,  of  which  the  western  half  has  been  split  off  and  become 
ingulfed.  This  geological  theory  of  its  formation  appears  to  have 
forced  itself  upon  those  who  gave  it  the  name  "  Half  Dome,"  which 
is  one  that  seems  to  suggest  itself,  at  the  first  sight  of  this  truly 
marvellous  crest  of  rock.  From  the  upper  part  of  the  Valley,  and 
from  all  the  heights  about  it,  the  Half  Dome  presents  itself  as  an 
object  of  the  most  imposing  grandeur.  It  has  not  the  massiveness 
of  El  Capitan,  but  it  is  more  astonishing,  and  probably  there  are 
few  visitors  to  the  Valley  who  would  not  concede  to  it  the  first 
place  among  all  the  wonders  of  the  region.     Those  who  have  not 

1  An  attempt  was  made  in  September,  1871,  by  Mr.  John  Conway  and  his  son, 
Major,  aged  nine  years,  an  extremely  active  and  daring  climber,  to  get  to  the  top  of 
the  Half  Dome.  They  were  furnished  with  a  rope  and  eye-bolts,  by  which  the 
liazards  of  the  descent  were  to  be  in  some  measure  provided  against  by  carrying 
the  rope  through  the  bolts,  driven  in  as  occasion  offered,  and  securing  it  at  the 
upper  end.  Major  reached  an  elevation  of  about  300  feet  above  the  saddle  or 
shoulder  on  the  northeast  side  of  the  Dome,  and  thinks  that  he  might  have  attained 
the  summit ;  but  the  father  deemed  the  risk  too  great,  as  the  boy  had  reached  a 
point  where  he  could  find  no  projection  to  which  the  rope  could  be  made  fast,  and 
the  return  without  its  assistance  was  extremely  hazardous.  [A  successful  ascent 
was  first  made  in  1875.] 


JOSIAH  D  WIGHT    WHITNEY  I  5 

seen  it  could  never  comprehend  its  extraordinary  form  and  propor- 
tions, not  even  with  the  aid  of  photographs.  It  is  entirely  unique 
in  the  Sierra  Nevada ;  and,  so  far  as  we  know,  in  the  world.  The 
only  possible  rival  "would  be  the  Matterhorn.  Each  is  unique  in 
its  way ;  but  the  forms  of  the  two  are  so  different  that  they  will 
hardly  bear  comparison.' 

Farther  up  the  canon  of  the  Tenaya  is  a  beautiful  little  lake 
called  "  Mirror  Lake,"  an  expansion  of  the  Tenaya  Fork.  It  is 
frequently  visited,  and  best  early  in  the  morning,  for  the  purpose 
of  getting  the  reflection  from  its  unruffled  surface  of  a  noble  over- 
hanging mass  of  rock,  to  which  the  name  of  Mount  Watkins  has 
been  given,  as  a  compliment  to  the  photographer  who  has  done  so 
much  to  attract  attention  to  this  region. 

Still  farther  up  the  Tenaya  Fork,  on  the  right-hand  side,  is 
"  Cloud's  Rest,"  the  somewhat  fanciful  designation  of  a  long,  bare, 
steep,  and  extremely  elevated  granite  ridge,  which  connects  the 
Valley  with  the  High  Sierra,  and  of  which  something  more  will  be 
said  in  the  next  chapter.  The  canon  of  the  Tenaya  Fork  is  diffi- 
cult to  chmb  through,  owing  to  the  great  pile  of  angular  fragments 
of  rock  with  which  it  is  obstructed.  It  has  formerly  been  traversed 
occasionally  by  persons  desiring  to  reach  the  Big  Oak  Flat  trail  to 
Mono  Lake  ;  but  now  it  is  much  easier  to  take  the  trail  up  Indian 
Canon,  which  has  the  advantage  of  being  passable  for  animals, 
while  the  Tenaya  Cafion  is  not. 

The  Indian  Canon  trail  is  steep  and  rough,  though  not  at  all 
dangerous.  It  affords  a  convenient  way  by  which  to  reach  the 
Tuolumne  Canon  and  the  region  of  Mount  Hoffmann,  although  it 
has  thus  far  been  principally  used  for  excursions  to  the  summit  of 
the  Yosemite  Falls.     It  was  last  year  a  free  trail. 

We  return  now  to  the  cafion  of  the  main  Merced  River,  which 
also  has  its  own  pecuHar  wonders  to  disclose.  Leaving  the  Yose- 
mite Valley  proper,  at  the  angle  spoken  of  before,  where  the 
three  canons  unite,  we  follow  up  the  Merced,  soon  crossing  the 
Illilouette,  which  carries  perhaps  a  third  or  a  quarter  as  much 

1  A  model  of  the  Half  Dome,  on  a  scale  of  300  feet  to  the  inch,  was  made  by  Mr. 
Hoffmann,  under  the  direction  of  the  writer  of  this  volume,  and  by  him  presented  to 
Woodward's  Garden  in  San  Francisco,  where  it  may  be  studied  by  those  who  feel 
an  interest  in  mountain  forms. 


l6  '  THE    YOSEMITE    VALLEY 

water  as  the  main  river.  Rising  rapidly  on  a  trail  which  runs 
along  near  the  river,  over  the  talus  of  great  angular  masses  fallen 
from  above,  we  ride  a  little  less  than  a  mile,  and  nearly  to  the 
base  of  the  first  of  the  two  great  falls  made  by  the  Merced  in 
coming  down  from  the  level  of  the  plateau  above  into  the  Yosemite 
Valley.  In  doing  this,  the  river  descends,  in  two  miles,  over 
2000  feet,  making,  besides  innumerable  cascades,  two  grand 
fells,  which  are  among  the  greater  attractions  of  the  Yosemite, 
not  only  on  account  of  their  height  and  the  large  body  of  water  in 
the  river  during  most  of  the  season,  but  also  on  account  of  the 
stupendous  scenery  in  the  midst  of  which  they  are  placed; 

The  first  fall  reached  in  ascending  the  canon  is  the  Vernal,  a 
perpendicular  sheet  of  water  with  a  descent  varying  greatly  with 
the  season.  Our  measurements  give  all  the  way  from  315  to  475 
feet  for  the  vertical  height  of  the  fall,  between  the  months  of  June 
and  October.  The  reason  of  these  discrepancies  seems  to  lie  in 
the  fact  that  the  rock  near  the  bottom  is  steeply  inclined,  so 
that  a  precise  definition  of  the  place  where  the  perpendicular  part 
ceases  is  very  difficult  amid  the  blinding  spray  and  foam.  As  the 
body  of  water  increases,  the  force  of  the  fall  is  greater,  and  of 
course  it  is  thrown  farthest  forward  when  the  mass  of  water  is 
greatest.  Probably  it  is  near  the  truth  to  call  the  height  of  the 
fall,  at  the  average  stage  of  water  in  June  or  July,  400  feet. 
The  rock  behind  this  fall  is  a  perfectly  square  cut  mass  of 
granite  extending  across  the  canon,  and  it  is  wonderful  to  see, 
at  low  water,  how  little  the  eroding  effect  of  the  river  has  had  to 
do  with  the  formation  of  the  canon  and  fall.  It  would  seem  as  if 
causes  now  in  action  had  litde  or  nothing  to  do  with  the  formation 
of  this  step  in  the  descent  of  the  Merced  to  any  valley  below. 

The  path  up  the  side  of  the  cahon  near  the  fall  winds  around 
and  along  a  steeply  sloping  mountain  side,  always  wet  with  the 
spray,  and  consequently  rather  slippery  in  places.  Ladies,  how- 
ever, find  no  great  difficulty  in  passing,  with  the  aid  of  friendly 
arms,  and  protected  by  stout  boots  and  india-rubber  clothing 
brought  from  the  hotel.  The  perpendicular  part  of  the  ascent 
is  surmounted  by  the  aid  of  a  substantial  and  well-protected  stair- 
case, which  has  lately  taken  the  place  of  the  former  somewhat 
dangerous  ladders.     At  the  summit  of  the  fall  the  view  down  the 


JO  SI  AH  D  WIGHT    WHITNEY  1 7 

canon,  as  well  as  in  the  opposite  direction,  is  extremely  fine.  A 
remarkable  parapet  of  granite  runs  along  the  edge  of  Vernal  Fall 
for  some  distance,  just  breast-high,  and  looking  as  if  made  on 
purpose  to  afford  the  visitor  a  secure  position  from  which  to  enjoy 
the  scene. 

From  the  Vernal  Fall  up  stream,  for  the  distance  of  about  a 
mile,  the  river  may  be  followed,  and  it  presents  a  succession  of 
cascades  and  rapids  of  great  beauty.  As  we  approach  the  Nevada 
Fall,  the  last  great  one  of  the  Merced,  we  have  at  every  step 
something  new  and  impressive.  On  the  left  hand,  or  north  side 
of  the  river,  is  the  Cap  of  Liberty,  a  stupendous  mass  of  rock, 
isolated  and  nearly  perpendicular  on  all  sides,  rising  perhaps 
2000  feet  above  its  base,  and  little  inferior  to  the  Half  Dome 
in  grandeur.  It  has  been  frequently  climbed,  and  without  difficulty, 
although  appearing  so  inaccessible  from  the  cafion  of  the  Merced. 

The  Nevada  Fall  is,  in  every  respect,  one  of  the  grandest 
waterfalls  in  the  world,  whether  we  consider  its  vertical  height, 
the  purity  and  volume  of  the  river  which  forms  it,  or  the  stupen- 
dous scenery  by  which  it  is  environed.  The  fall  is  not  quite 
perpendicular,  as  there  is  near  the  summit  a  ledge  of  rock  which 
receives  a  portion  of  the  water,  and  throws  it  off  with  a  peculiar 
twist,  adding  considerably  to  the  general  picturesque  effect.  A 
determination  of  the  height  of  the  fall  was  not  easy,  on  account 
of  the  blinding  spray  at  the  bottom,  and  the  uncertainty  of  the 
exact  spot  where  the  water  strikes.  Indeed,  this  seems  to  vary 
in  the  Nevada  as  well,  although  not  so  much,  as  in  the  Vernal 
Fall.  Our  measurements  made  the  Nevada  from  591  to  639 
feet,  at  different  times  and  seasons.  To  call  the  Vernal  400  and 
the  Nevada  600  feet,  in  round  numbers,  will  be  near  enough  to 
the  truth.  The  descent  of  the  river  in  the  rapids  between  the 
two  falls  is  nearly  300  feet. 

In  the  cafion  of  the  South  Fork,  or  Illilouette,  there  is  a  fine 
fall  estimated  at  600  feet  high.  It  is  seen  from  a  point  on  the 
trail  from  the  hotel  to  Mirror  Lake,  although  but  rarely  visited  by 
travellers,  the  cailon  being  rough  and  difficult  to  climb.  A  trail 
should  be  made  up  this  gorge,  to  give  access  to  the  fall,  and  to 
the  superb  views  to  be  had  of  the  back  of  the  Half  Dome,  the 
Vernal  Fall,  and  other  interesting  points. 
c 


1 8  LAND  OR' S   COTTAGE 

Having  thus  run  rapidly  through  the  hst  of  objects  in  the 
Valley  best  known  and  most  hkely  to  be  visited,  we  will  give  a 
more  systematic  and  general  account  of  the  Yosemite,  —  its  botany, 
topography,  and  geology ;  this  will  enable  us  to  bring  forward 
some  interesting  considerations  which  could  not  so  well  be  intro- 
duced in  a  detailed  enumeration,  in  a  geographical  order,  of  the 
points  of  interest. 


LANDOR'S    COTTAGE 

y 

EDGAR  ALLAN   POE 

[A  part  of  an  imaginary  sketch,  entitled  Landor^s  Cottage,  published  in  his 
Works,  1850.] 

The  little  vale  into  which  I  thus  peered  down  from  under  the 
fog-canopy  could  not  have  been,  more  than  four  hundred  yards 
long ;  while  in  breadth  it  varied  from  fifty  to  one  hundred  and 
fifty,  or  perhaps  two  hundred.  It  was  most  narrow  at  its  northern 
extremity,  opening  out  as  it  tended  southwardly,  but  with  no  very 
precise  regularity.  The  widest  portion  was  within  eighty  yards  of 
the  southern  extreme.  The  slopes  which  encompassed  the  vale 
could  not  fairly  be  called  hills,  unless  at  their  northern  face. 
Here  a  precipitous  ledge  of  granite  arose  to  a  height  of  some  ninety 
feet ;  and,  as  I  have  mentioned,  the  valley  at  this  point  was  not 
more  than  fifty  feet  wide ;  but  as  the  visitor  proceeded  south- 
wardly from  this  cliff,  he  found,  on  his  right  hand  and  on  his  left, 
declivities  at  once  less  high,  less  precipitous,  and  less  rocky.  All, 
in  a  word,  sloped  and  softened  to  the  south ;  and  yet  the  whole 
vale  was  engirdled  by  eminences,  more  or  less  high,  except  at  two 
points.  One  of  these  I  have  already  spoken  of.  It  lay  consider- 
ably to  the  north  of  west,  and  was  where  the  setting  sun  made  its 
way,  as  I  have  before  described,  into  the  amphitheatre,  through  a 
cleanly  cut  natural  cleft  in  the  granite  embankment :  this  fissure 
might  have  been  ten  yards  wide  at  its  widest  point,  so  far  as  the 
eye  could  trace  it.  It  seeimed  to  lead  up,  up,  like  a  natural  cause- 
way, into  the  recesses  of  unexplored  mountains  and  forests.  The 
other  opening  was  directly  at  the  southern  end  of  the  vale.    Here, 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


19 


generally,  the  slopes  were  nothing  more  than  gentle  inclinations, 
extending  from  east  to  west  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards. 
In  the  middle  of  this  extent  was  a  depression,  level  with  the  ordi- 
nary floor  of  the  valley.  As  regards  vegetation,  as  well  as  in 
respect  to  everything  else,  the  scene  softened  and  sloped  to  the 
south.  To  the  north  — on  the  craggy  precipice  —  afew  paces  from 
the  verge — upsprang  the  magnificent  trunks  of  numerous  hickories, 
black  walnuts,  and  chestnuts,  interspersed  with  occasional  oak ; 
and  the  strong  lateral  branches  thrown  out  by  the  walnuts,  espe- 
cially, spread  far  over  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  Proceeding  south- 
wardly, the  explorer  saw  at  first  the  same  class  of  trees,  but  less 
and  less  lofty  and  Salvatorish  ^  in  character ;  then  he  saw  the 
gentler  elm,  succeeded  by  the  sassafras  and  locust  —  these  again 
by  the  softer  linden,  red-bud,  catalpa,  and  maple  —  these  yet 
again  by  still  more  graceful  and  more  modest  varieties.  The 
whole  face  of  the  southern  declivity  was  covered  with  wild  shrub- 
bery alone — an  occasional  silver  willow  or  white  poplar  excepted. 
In  the  bottom  of  the  valley  itself — (for  it  must  be  borne  in  mind 
that  the  vegetation  hitherto  mentioned  grew  only  on  the  cliffs  or 
hillsides)  — were  to  be  seen  three  insulated  trees.  One  was  an  elm 
of  fine  size  and  exquisite  form  :  it  stood  guard  over  the  southern 
gate  of  the  vale.  Another  was  a  hickory,  much  larger  than  the 
elm,  and  altogether  a  much  finer  tree,  although  both  were  exceed- 
ingly beautiful :  it  seemed  to  have  taken  charge  of  the  north- 
western entrance,  springing  from  a  group  of  rocks  in  the  very  jaws 
of  the  ravine,  and  throwing  its  graceful  body,  at  an  angle  of  nearly 
forty-five  degrees,  far  out  into  the  sunshine  of  the  amphitheatre. 
About  thirty  yards  east  of  this  tree  stood,  however,  the  pride  of 
the  valley,  and  beyond  all  question  the  most  magnificent  tree  I 
have  ever  seen,  unless,  perhaps,  among  the  cypresses  of  Itchia- 
tuckanee.  It  was  a  triple-stemmed  tulip  tree — the  Lirio- 
dendron  Tiilipifenim  —  one  of  the  natural  order  of  magnolias.  Its 
three  trunks  separated  from  the  parent  at  about  three  feet  from 
the  soil  and,  diverging  very  slightly  and  gradually,  were  not  more 
than  four  feet  apart  at  the  point  where  the  largest  stem  shot  out 
into  the  foliage  :  this  was  at  an  elevation  of  about  eighty  feet. 

1  [Salvator  was  more  well  known  then  than  now  as  an  Italian  painter  of  wildly 
romantic  scenery.] 


20  LAND  OR' S   COTTAGE 

The  whole  height  of  the  principal  division  was  one  hundred  and 
twenty  feet.  Nothing  can  surpass  in  beauty  the  form  or  the 
glossy,  vivid  green  of  the  leaves  of  the  tulip  tree.  In  the  present 
instance  they  were  fully  eight  inches  Vvide ;  but  their  glory  was 
altogether  echpsed  by  the  gorgeous  splendor  of  the  profuse  blos- 
soms. Conceive,  closely  congregated,  a  million  of  the  largest  and 
most  resplendent  tulips  !  Only  thus  can  the  reader  get  any  idea 
of  the  picture  I  would  convey.  And  then  the  stately  grace  of  the 
clean,  delicately-granulated  columnar  stems,  the  largest  four  feet 
in  diameter,  at  twenty  from  the  ground.  The  innumerable  blos- 
soms, mingling  with  those  of  other  trees  scarcely  less  beautiful, 
although  infinitely  less  majestic,  filled  the  valley  with  more  than 
Arabian  perfumes. 

The  general  floor  of  the  amphitheatre  was  grass  of  the  same 
character  as  that  I  had  found  in  the  road  :  if  anything,  more  de- 
liciously  soft,  thick,  velvety,  and  miraculously  green.  It  was  hard 
to  conceive  how  all  this  beauty  had  been  attained. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  two  openings  into  the  vale.  From  the 
one  to  the  nortnwest  issued  a  rivulet,  which  came,  gently  mur- 
muring and  slightly  foaming,  down  the  ravine,  until  it  dashed 
agai;ist  the  group  of  rooks  out  of  which  sprang  the  insulated  hick- 
ory. Here,  after  encircling  the  tree,  it  passed  on,  a  little  to  the 
north  of  east,  leaving  the  tulip  tree  some  twenty  feet  to  the  south, 
and  making  no  decided  alteration  in  its  course  until  it  came  near 
the  midway  between  the  eastern  and  \yesterh  boundaries  of  the 
valley.  At  this  point,  after  a  series  of  sweeps,  it  turned  off  at 
right  angles  and  pursued  a  generally  southern  direction  —  mean- 
dering as  it  went — ^  until  it  became  lost  in  a  small  lake  of  irregular 
figure  (although  roughly  oval),  that  lay  gleaming  near  the  lower 
extremity  of  the  vale.  This  lakelet'was,  perhaps,  a  hundred  yards 
in  diameter  at  its  widest  part.  No  crystal  could  be  clearer  than 
its  waters.  Its  bottom,  which  could  be  distinctly  seen,  consisted 
altogether  of  pebbles  brilliantly  white.  Its  banks,  of  the  emerald 
grass  already  described,  rounded,  rather  than  sloped,  off  into  the 
clear  heaven  below ;  and  j-^  clear  was  this  heaven,  so  perfectly,  at 
times,  did  it  reflect  all  objects  above  it,  that  where  the  true  bank 
ended  and  where  the  mimic  one  commenced,  it  was  a  point  of  no 
little  difficulty  to  determine.     The  trout,  and  some  other  varieties 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  21 

of  fish,  with  which  this  pond  seemed  to  be  almost  inconveniently, 
crowded,  had  all  the  appearance  of  veritable  flying-fish.  It  was 
almost  impossible  to  believe  that  they  were  not  absolutely  sus- 
pended in  the  air.  A  light  birch  canoe,  that  lay  placidly  on  the 
water,  was  reflected  in  its  minutest  fibres  with  a  fidelity  unsur- 
passed by  the  most  exquisitely  pohshed  mirror.  A  small  island, 
fairly  laughing  with  flowers  in  full  bloom,  and  affording  little  more 
space  than  just  enough  for  a  picturesque  little  building,  seemingly 
a  fowl-house,  arose  from  the  lake  not  far  from  its  northern  shore, 
to  which  it  was  connected  by  means  of  an  inconceivably  light- 
looking  and  yet  very  primitive  bridge.  It  was  formed  of  a  single 
broad  and  thick  plank  of  the  tuhp  wood.  This  was  forty  feet  long, 
and  spanned  the  interval  between  shore  and  shore  with  a  slight 
but  very  perceptible  arch,  preventing  all  oscillation.  From  the 
southern  extreme  of  the  lake  issued  a  continuation  of  the  rivulet, 
which,  after  meandering  for  perhaps  thirty  yards,  finally  passed 
through  the  "depression"  (already  described)  in  the  middle  of 
the  southern  declivity,  and  tumbling  down  a  sheer  precipice  of  a 
hundred  feet,  made  its  devious  and  unnoticed  way  to  the  Hudson. 

The  lake  was  deep  —  at  some  points  thirty  feet  —  but  the 
rivulet  seldom  exceeded  three,  while  its  greatest  width  was  about 
eight.  Its  bottom  and  banks  were  as  those  of  the  pond — if  a 
defect  could  have  been  attributed  to  them,  in  point  of  pictur- 
esqueness,  it  was  that  of  excessive  neatness. 

The  expanse  of  the  green  turf  was  reheved,  here  and  there, 
by  an  occasional  showy  shrub,  such  as  the  hydrangea,  or  the 
common  snowball,  or  the  aromatic  seringa ;  or,  more  frequently, 
by  a  clump  of  geraniums  blossoming  gorgeously  in  great  varieties. 
These  latter  grew  in  pots  which  were  carefully  buried  in  the  soil, 
so  as  to  give  the  plants  the  appearance  of  being  indigenous. 
Besides  all  this,  the  lawn's  velvet  was  exquisitely  spotted  with 
sheep  —  a  considerable  flock  of  which  roamed  about  the  vale,  in 
company  with  three  tamed  deer,  and  a  vast  number  of  brilliantly- 
plumed  ducks.  A  very  large  mastiff  seemed  to  be  in  vigilant 
attendance  upon  these  animals,  each  and  all. 

Along  the  eastern  and  western  cliffs  —  where,  towards  the 
upper  portion  of  the  amphitheatre,  the  boundaries  were  more  or 
less  precipitous  —  grew  ivy  in  great  profusion  —  so  that  only  here 


22  LANDOR'S   COTTAGE 

and  there  could  even  a  glimpse  of  the  naked  rock  be  obtained. 
The  northern  precipice,  in  like  manner,  was  almost  entirely  clothed 
by  grapevines  of  rare  luxuriance ;  some  springing  from  the  soil 
at  the  base  of  the  cliff,  and  others  from  ledges  on  its  face. 

The  slight  elevation  which  formed  the  lower  boundary  of  this 
little  domain  was  crowned  by  a  neat  stone  wall,  of  sufficient  height 
to  prevent  the  escape  of  the  deer.  Nothing  of  the  fence  kind  was 
observable  elsewhere ;  for  nowhere  else  was  an  artificial  enclosure 
needed  :  —  any  stray  sheep,  for  example,  which  should  attempt  to 
make  its  way  out  of  the  vale  by  means  of  the  ravine,  would  find 
its  progress  arrested,  after  a  few  yards'  advance,  by  the  precipitous 
ledge  of  rock  over  which  tumbled  the  cascade  that  had  arrested 
my  attention  as  I  first  drew  near  the  domain.  In  short,  the  only 
ingress  or  egress  was  through  a  grate  occupying  a  rocky  pass  in 
the  road,  a  few  paces  below  the  point  at  which  I  stopped  to 
reconnoitre  the  scene. 

I  have  described  the  brook  as  meandering  very  irregularly 
through  the  whole  of  its  course.  Its  two  general  directions,  as  I 
have  said,  were  first  from  west  to  east,  and  then  from  north  to 
south.  At  the  turn,  the  stream,  sweeping  backwards,  made  an 
almost  circular  loop,  so  as  to  form  a  peninsula,  which  was  very 
nearly  an  island,  and  which  included  about  the  sixteenth  of  an 
acre.  On  this  peninsula  stood  a  dwelling-house  —  and  when  I  say 
that  this  house,  like  the  infernal  terrace  seen  by  Vathek,^  "  elatt 
d'iine  architecture  inconnue  dans  les  annales  de  la  terre,^^'^  I  mean, 
merely,  that  its  tout  ensemble  struck  me  with  the  keenest  sense  of 
combined  novelty  and  propriety  —  in  a  word,  of  poetry  (for,  than 
in  the  words  just  employed,  I  could  scarcely  give,  of  poetry  in  the 
abstract,  a  more  rigorous  definition)  —  and  I  do  not  mean  that 
the  merely  out7'e  was  perceptible  in  any  respect. 

In  fact,  nothing  could  well  be  more  simple,  more  utterly  un- 
pretending, than  this  cottage.  Its  marvellous  effect  lay  altogether 
in  its  artistic  arrangement  as  a  picture.  I  could  have  fancied, 
while  I  looked  at  it,  that  some  eminent  landscape-painter  had 
built  it  with  his  brush. 

The  point  of  view  from  which  I  first  saw  the  valley  was  not 

1  [The  hero  of  Beckford's  romance  of  the  same  name.] 

2  [Was  of  an  architecture  unknown  in  the  ann.ils  of  the  earth.] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  23 

altogether,  although  ft  was  nearly,  the  best  point  from  which  to 
survey  the  house.  I  will  therefore  describe  it  as  I  afterwards  saw 
it  —  from  a  position  on  the  stone  wall  at  the  southern  extreme  of 
the  amphitheatre. 

The  main  building  was  about  twenty-four  feet  long  and  sixteen 
broad — certainly  not  more.  Its  total  height,  from  the  ground  to  the 
apeji  erf  the  roof,  could  not  have  exceeded  eighteen  feet.  To  the 
west  end  of  this  structure  was  attached  one  about  a  third  smaller 
in  all  its  proportions  :  —  the  line  of  its  front  standing  back  about 
two  yards  from  that  of  the  larger  house  ;  and  the  line  of  its  roof, 
of  course,  being  considerably  -depressed  below  that  of  the  roof 
adjoining.  At  right  angles  to  these  buildings,  and  from  the  rear 
of  the  main  one,  not  exactly  in  the  middle,  extended  a  third  com- 
partment, very  small  —  being,  in  general,  one-third  less  than  the 
western  wing.  The  roofs  of  the  two  larger  were  very  steep  — 
sweeping  down  from  the  ridge-beam  with  a  long  concave  curve, 
and  extending  at  least  four  feet  beyond  the  walls  in  front,  so  as 
to  form  the  roofs  of  two  piazzas.  These  latter  roofs,  of  course, 
needed  no  support ;  but  as  they  had  the  air  of  needing  it,  slight 
and  perfectly  plain  pillars  were  inserted  at  the  corners  alone. 
The  roof  of  the  northern  wing  was  merely  an  extension  of  a  por- 
tion of  the  main  roof.  Between  the  chief  building  and  western 
wing  arose  a  very  tall  and  rather  slender  square  chimney  of  hard 
Dutch  bricks,  alternately  black  and  red: — a  slight  cornice  of 
projecting  bricks  at  the  top.  Over  the  gables  the  roofs  also  pro- 
jected very  much: — in  the  main  building,  about  four  feet  to  the 
east  and  two  to  the  west.  The  principal  door  was  not  exactly 
in  the  middle  of  the  main  division,  being  a  little  to  the  east — while 
the  two  windows  were  to  the  west.  These  latter  did  not  extend 
to  the  floor,  but  were  much  longer  and  narrower  than  usual  —  they 
had  single  shutters  like  doors  —  the  panes  were  of  lozenge  form, 
but  quite  large.  The  door  itself  had  its  upper  half  of  glass,  also 
in  lozenge  panes  —  a  movable  shutter  secured  it  at  night.  The 
door  to  the  west  wing  was  in  its  gable,  and  quite  simple  —  a  single 
window  looked  out  to  the  south.  There  was  no  external  door  to 
the  north  wing,  and  it,  also,  had  only  one  window  to  the  east. 

The  blank  wall  of  the  eastern  gable  was  relieved  by  stairs  (with 
a  balustrade)  running  diagonally  across  it  —  the  ascent  being  from 


24  LAN  DOR'S  COTTAGE 

the  south.  Under  cover  of  the  widely  projectmg  eave  these  steps 
gave  access  to  a  door  leading  into  the  garret,  or  rather  loft  —  for  it 
was  lighted  only  by  a  single  window  to  the  north,  and  seemed  to 
have  been  intended  as  a  storeroom. 

The  piazzas  of  the  main  building  and  western  wing  had  no  floors, 
as  is  usual ;  but  at  the  doors  and  at  each  window,  large,  flat,  irregu- 
lar slabs  of  granite  lay  embedded  in  the  delicious  turf,  affording 
comfortable  footing  in  all  weather.  Excellent  paths  of  the  same 
material  —  not  nicely  adapted,  but  with  the  velvety  sod  filling  fre- 
quent intervals  between  the  stones,  led  hither  and  thither  from 
the  house,  to  a  crystal  spring  about  five  paces  off,  to  the  road,  or 
to  one  or  two  outhouses  that  lay  to  the  north,  beyond  the  brook, 
and  were  thoroughly  concealed  by  a  few  locusts  and  catalpas. 

Not  more  than  six  steps  from  the  main  door  of  the  cottage 
stood  the  dead  trunk  of  a  fantastic  pear  tree,  so  clothed  from  head 
to  foot  in  the  gorgeous  bignonia  blossoms  that  one  required  no  ht- 
tle  scrutiny  to  determine  what  manner  of  sweet  thing  it  could  be. 
From  various  arms  of  this  tree  hung  cages  of  different  kinds.  In 
one,  a  large  wicker  cylinder  with  a  ring  at  top,  revelled  a  mocking- 
bird ;  in  another,  an  oriole;  in  a  third,  the  impudent  bobolink  — 
while  three  or  four  more  delicate  prisons  were  loudly  vocal  with 
canaries. 

The  pillars  of  the  piazza  were  enwreathed  in  jasmine  and  sweet 
honeysuckle  ;  while  from  the  angle  formed  by  the  main  structure 
and  its  west  wing,  in  front,  sprang  a  grapevine  of  unexampled  luxu- 
riance. Scorning  all  restraint,  it  had  clambered  first  to  the  lower 
roof —  then  to  the  higher  ;  and  along  the  ridge  of  this  latter  it  con- 
tinued to  writhe  on,  throwing  out  tendrils  to  the  right  and  left, 
until  at  length  it  fairly  attained  the  east  gable,  and  fell  trailing  over 
the  stairs. 

The  whole  house,  with  its  wings,  was  constructed  of  the  old- 
fashioned  Dutch  shingles  —  broad,  and  with  unrounded  corners. 
It  is  a  peculiarity  of  this  material  to  give  houses  built  of  it  the 
appearance  of  being  wider  at  bottom  than  at  top  —  after  the  man- 
ner of  Egyptian  architecture ;  and  in  the  present  instance  this 
exceedingly  picturesque  effect  was  aided  by  numerous  pots  of  gor- 
geous flowers  that  almost  encompassed  the  base  of  the  buildings. 

The  shingles  were  painted  a  dull  gray ;  and  the  happiness  with 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  2$ 

which  this  neutral  tint  melted  into  the  vivid  green  of  the  tulip 
tree  leaves  that  partially  overshadowed  the  cottage  can  readily 
be  conceived  by  an  artist. 

From  the  position  near  the  stone  wall,  as  described,  the  build- 
ings were  seen  at  great  advantage  —  for  the  southeastern  angle  was 
thrown  forward  —  so  that  the  eye  took  in  at  once  the  whole  of  the 
two  fronts,  with  the  picturesque  eastern  gable,  and  at  the  same 
time  obtained  just  a  sufficient  glimpse  of  the  northern  wing,  with 
parts  of  a  pretty  roof  to  the  spring-house,  and  nearly  half  of  a  light 
bridge  that  spanned  the  brook  in  the  near  vicinity  of  the  main 
buildings. 

ST.   MARK'S 

JOHN  RUSKIN 
[From  chapter  4,  volume  ii,  of  The  Stones  of  Venice,  185 1-3.] 

And  now  I  wish  that  the  reader,  before  I  bring  him  into  St. 
Mark's  Place,  would  imagine  himself  for  a  little  time  in  a  quiet 
EngHsh  cathedral  town,  and  walk  with  me  to  the  west  front  of  its 
cathedral.  Let  us  go  together  up  the  more  retired  street,  at  the 
end  of  which  we  can  see  the  pinnacles  of  one  of  the  towers,  and 
then  through  the  low  grey  gateway,  with  its  battlemented  top  and 
small  latticed  window  in  the  centre,  into  the  inner  private-looking 
road  or  close,  where  nothing  goes  in  but  the  carts  of  the  trades- 
men who  supply  the  bishop  and  the  chapter,  and  where  there  are 
little  shaven  grassplots,  fenced  in  by  neat  rails,  before  old-fashioned 
groups  of  somewhat  diminutive  and  excessively  trim  houses,  with 
little  oriel  and  bay  windows  jutting  out  here  and  there,  and  deep 
wooden  cornices  and  eaves  painted  cream  color  and  white,  and 
small  porches  to  their  doors  in  the  shape  of  cockle-shells,  or  little, 
crooked,  thick,  indescribable  wooden  gables  warped  a  little  on 
one  side ;  and  so  forward  till  we  come  to  larger  houses,  also  old- 
fashioned,  but  of  red  brick,  and  with  gardens  behind  them,  and 
fruit  walls,  which  show  here  and  there,  among  the  nectarines,  the 
vestiges  of  an  old  cloister  arch  or  shaft,  and  looking  in  front  on 
the  cathedral  square  itself,  laid  out  in  rigid  divisions  of  smooth 
grass  and  gravel  walk,  yet  not  uncheerful,  especially  on  the  sunny 


26  ST.    MARK'S 

side  where  the  canons'  children  are  walking  with  their  nursery- 
maids. And  so,  taking  care  not  to  tread  on  the  grass,  we  will  go 
along  the  straight  walk  to  the  west  front,  and  there  stand  for  a 
time,  looking  up  at  its  deep-pointed  porches  and  the  dark  places 
between  their  pillars,  where  there  were  statues  once,  and  where  the 
fragments,  here  and  there,  of  a  stately  figure  are  still  left,  which  has 
in  it  the  likeness  of  a  king,  perhaps  indeed  a  king  on  earth,  per- 
haps a  saintly  king  long  ago  in  heaven ;  and  so  higher  and  higher 
up  to  the  great  mouldering  wall  of  rugged  sculpture  and  confused 
arcades,  shattered,  and  grey,  and  grisly  with  heads  of  dragons  and 
mocking  fiends,  worn  by  the  rain  and  swirling  winds  into  yet 
unseemUer  shape,  and  coloured  on  their  stony  scales  by  the  deep 
russet-orange  lichen,  melancholy  gold ;  and  so,  higher  still,  to  the 
bleak  towers,  so  far  above  that  the  eye  loses  itself  among  the 
bosses  of  their  traceries,  though  they  are  rude  and  strong,  and  only 
sees  like  a  drift  of  eddying  black  points,  now  closing,  now  scatter- 
ing, and  now  settling  suddenly  into  invisible  places  among  the 
bosses  and  flowers,  the  crowd  of  restless  birds  that  fill  the  whole 
square  with  that  strange  clangour  of  theirs,  so  harsh  and  yet  so 
soothing,  like  the  cries  of  birds  on  a  solitary  coast  between  the 
cliffs  and  sea. 

Think  for  a  Httle  while  of  that  scene,  and  the  meaning  of  all  its 
small  formalisms,  mixed  with  its  serene  sublimity.  Estimate  its 
secluded,  continuous,  drowsy  felicities,  and  its  evidence  of  the 
sense  and  steady  performance  of  such  kind  of  duties  as  can  be 
regulated  by  the  cathedral  clock ;  and  weigh  the  influence  of 
those  dark  towers  on  all  who  have  passed  through  the  lonely  square 
at  their  feet  for  centuries,  and  on  all  who  have  seen  them  rising 
far  away  over  the  wooded  plain,  or  catching  on  their  square  masses 
the  last  rays  of  the  sunset,  when  the  city  at  their  feet  was  indicated 
only  by  the  mist  at  the  bend  of  the  river.  And  then  let  us  quickly 
recollect  that  we  are  in  Venice,  and  land  at  the  extremity  of  the 
Calle  Lunga  San  Moise,  which  may  be  considered  as  there  answer- 
ing to  the  secluded  street  that  led  us  to  our  English  cathedral 
gateway. 

We  find  ourselves  in  a  paved  alley,  some  seven  feet  wide  where 
it  is  widest,  full  of  people,  and  resonant  with  cries  of  itinerant  sales- 
men, —  a  shriek  in  their  beginning,  and  dying  away  into  a  kind  of 


JOHN  RUSK  IN  27 

Drazen  ringing,  all  the  worse  for  its  confinement  between  the  high 
houses  of  the  passage  along  which  we  have  to  make  our  way. 
Overhead  an  inextricable  confusion  of  rugged  shutters,  and  iron 
balconies  and  chimney  flues  pushed  out  on  brackets  to  save  room, 
and  arched  windows  with  projecting  sills  of  Istrian  stOne,  and 
gleams  of  green  leaves  here  and  there  where  a  fig-tree  branch 
escapes  over  a  lower  wall  from  some  inner  cortile,  leading  the  eye 
up  to  the  narrow  stream  of  blue  sky  high  over  all.  On  each  side, 
a  row  of  shops,  as  densely  set  as  may  be,  occupying,  in  fact,  inter- 
vals between  the  square  stone  shafts,  about  eight  feet  high,  which 
carry  the  first  floors  :  intervals  of  which  one  is  narrow  and  serves 
as  a  door ;  the  other  is,  in  the  more  respectable  shops,  wainscoted 
to  the  height  of  the  counter  and  glazed  above,  but  in  those  of  the 
poorer  tradesmen  left  open  to  the  ground,  and  the  wares  laid  on 
benches  and  tables  in  the  open  air,  the  light  in  all  cases  entering 
-at  the  front  only,  and  fading  away  in  a  few  feet  from  the  threshold 
into  a  gloom  which  the  eye  from  without  cannot  penetrate,  but 
which  is  generally  broken  by  a  ray  or  two  from  a  feeble  lamp  at 
the  back  of  the  shop,  suspended  before  a  print  of  the  Virgin.  The 
less  pious  shopkeeper  sometimes  leaves  his  lamp  unlighted,  and  is 
contented  with  a  penny  print ;  the  more  religious  one  has  his  print 
coloured  and  set  in  a  little  shrine  with  a  gilded  or  figured  fringe, 
with  perhaps  a  faded  flower  or  two  on  each  side,  and  his  lamp 
burning  brilliantly.  Here  at  the  fruiterer's,  where  the  dark-green 
water-melons  are  heaped  upon  the  counter  like  cannon-balls,  the 
Madonna  has  a  tabernacle  of  fresh  laurel  leaves  ;  but  the  pewterer 
next  door  has  let  his  lamp  out,  and  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen  in 
his  shop  but  the  dull  gleam  of  the  studded  patterns  on  the  cop- 
per pans,  hanging  from  his  roof  in  the  darkness.  Next  comes  a 
"Vendita  Frittole  e  Liquori,"  ^  where  the  Virgin,  enthroned  in  a 
very  humble  manner  beside  a  tallow  candle  on  a  back  shelf,  pre- 
sides over  certain  ambrosial  morsels  of  a  nature  too  ambiguous  to 
be'  defined  or  enumerated.  But  a  few  steps  farther  on,  at  the 
regular  wine-shop  of  the  calle,  where  we  are  offered  "  Vino  Nos- 
trani  a  Soldi  28.32," -the  Madonna  is  in  great  glory,  enthroned 
above  ten  or  a  dozen  large  red  casks  of  three-year-old  vintage,  and 

1  [Shop  for  cakes  and  liquors.] 

2  [Nostrani  wine  at  so  many  soldi  (cents).] 


28  ST.    MARK'S 

flanked  by  goodly  ranks  of  bottles  of  Maraschino,  and  two  crimson 
lamps;  and  for  the  evening,  when  the  gondoliers  will  come  to 
drink  out,  under  her  auspices,  the  money  they  have  gained  during 
the  day,  she  will  have  a  whole  chandelier. 

A  yard  or  two  farther,  we  pass  the  hostelry  of  the  Black  Eagle, 
and,  glancing  as  we  pass    through   the    square   door   of  marble, 
deeply  moulded    in  the  outer  wall,  we   see  the  shadows   of  its 
pergola  of  vines  resting  on  an  ancient  well,  with  a  pointed  shield 
carved  on  its  side ;  and  so  presently  emerge  on  the  bridge  and 
Campo  San  Moise,  whence  to  the  entrance  into  St.  Mark's  Place, 
called  the  Bocca  di  Piazza  (mouth  of  the  square),  the  Venetian 
character  is  nearly  destroyed,  first  by  the  frightful  fagade  of  San 
Moisfe,  which  we  will  pause  at  another  time  to  examine,  and  then 
by  the  modernizing  of  the  shops  as  they  near  the  piazza,  and  the 
mingling  with  the  lower  Venetian  populace  of  lounging  groups  of 
English  and  Austrians.      We  will  push  fast  through  them  into  the 
shadow  of  the  pillars  at  the  end  of  the  "  Bocca  di  Piazza,"  and 
then  we  forget  them  all ;  for  between  those  pillars  there  opens  a 
great  light,  and,  in  the  midst  of  it,  as  we  advance  slowly,  the  vast 
tower  of  St.  Mark  seems  to  lift  itself  visibly  forth  from  the  level 
field  of  chequered  stones  \  and,  on  each  side,  the  countless  arches 
prolong  themselves  into  ranged  symmetry,  as  if  the  rugged  and 
irregular  houses  that  pressed  together  above  us  in  the  dark  alley 
had  been  struck  back  into  sudden  obedience  and  lovely  order, 
and  all  their  rude  casements  and  broken  walls  had  been  trans- 
formed into    arches    charged  with   goodly  sculpture,  and   fluted 
shafts  of  delicate  stone. 

And  well  may  they  fall  back,  for  beyond  those  troops  of  ordered 
arches  there  rises  a  vision  out  of  the  earth,  and  all  the  great 
square  seems  to  have  opened  from  it  in  a  kind  of  awe,  that\we 
may  see  it  far  away ;  —  a  multitude  of  pillars  and  white  domes, 
clustered  into  a  long,  low  pyramid  of  coloured  light ;  a  treasure- 
heap,  it  seems,  partly  of  gold,  and  partly  of  opal  and  mother-of- 
pearl,  hollowed  beneath  into  five  great  vaulted  porches,  ceiled 
with  fair  mosaic,  and  beset  with  sculpture  of  alabaster,  clear  as 
amber  and  delicate  as  ivory,  —  sculpture  fantastic  and  involved, 
of  palm  leaves  and  lilies,  and  grapes  and  pomegranates,  and  birds 
clinging  and  fluttering  among  the  branches,  all  twined  together 


JOHN  RUSK  IN  29 

into  an  endless  network  of  buds  and  plumes  j  and,  in  the  midst  of 
it,  the  solemn  forms  of  angels,  sceptred,  and  robed  to  the  feet, 
and  leaning  to  each  other  across  the  gates,  their  figures  indistinct 
among  the  gleaming  of  the  golden  ground  through  the  leaves 
beside  them,  interrupted  and  dim,  like  the  morning  light  as  it 
faded  back  among  the  branches  of  Eden,  when  first  its  gates  were 
angel-guarded  long  ago.  And  round  the  walls  of  the  porches 
there  are  set  pillars  of  variegated  stones,  jasper  and  porphyry,  and 
deep-green  serpentine  spotted  with  flakes  of  snow,  and  marbles, 
that  half  refuse  and  half  yield  to  the  sunshine,  Cleopatralike, 
"  their  bluest  veins  to  kiss  "  —  the  shadow,  as  it  steals  back  from 
them,  revealing  line  after  line  of  azure  undulation,  as  a  receding 
tide  leaves  the  waved  sand  ;  their  capitals  rich  with  interwoven 
tracery,  rooted  knots  of  herbage,  and  drifting  leaves  of  acanthus 
and  vine,  and  mystical  signs,  all  beginning  and  ending  in  the 
Cross ;  and  above  them,  in  the  broad  archivolts,  a  continuous 
chain  of  language  and  of  life  —  angels,  and  the  signs  of  heaven, 
and  the  labours  of  men,  each  in  its  appointed  season  upon  the 
earth  ;  and  above  these,  another  range  of  glittering  pinnacles, 
mixed  with  white  arches  edged  with  scarlet  flowers,  —  a  confusion 
of  delight,  amidst  which  the  breasts  of  the  Greek  horses  are  seen 
blazing  in  their  breadth  of  golden  strength,  and  the  St.  Mark's 
Lion,  lifted  on  a  blue  field  covered  with. stars,  until  at  last,  as  if  in 
ecstasy,  the  crests  of  the  arches  break  into  a  marble  foam,  and 
toss  themselves  far  into  the  blue  sky  in  flashes  and  wreaths  of 
sculptured  spray,  as  if  the  breakers  on  the  Lido  shore  had  been 
frost-bound  before  they  fell,  and  the  sea-nymphs  had  inlaid  them 
with  coral  and  amethyst. 

Between  that  grim  cathedral  of  England  and  this,  what  an  inter- 
val !  There  is  a  type  of  it  in  the  very  birds  that  haunt  them  ; 
for,  instead  of  the  restless  crowd,  hoarse-voiced  and  sable-winged, 
drifting  on  the  bleak  upper  air,  the  St.  Mark's  porches  are  full  of 
doves,  that  nestle  among  the  marble  foliage,  and  mingle  the  soft 
iridescence  of  their  living  plumes,  changing  at  every  motion,  with 
the  tints,  hardly  less  lovely,  that  have  stood  unchanged  for  seven 
hundred  years. 


30  THE  PLAINS   OF  PATAGONIA 

THE    PLAINS    OF    PATAGONIA 

W.  H.  HUDSON 
[From  chapter  13  of  Idle  Days  in  Patagonia,  1893.] 

Near  the  end  of  Darwin's  famous  narrative  of  the  voyage  of 
the  Beagle  there  is  a  passage  which,  for  me,  has  a  very  special 
interest  and  significance.  It  is  as  follows,  and  the  italicization 
is  mine  :  —  "  In  calling  up  images  of  the  past,  I  find  the  plains  of 
Patagonia  frequently  cross  before  my  eyes ;  yet  these  plains  are 
pronounced  by  all  to  be  most  wretched  and  useless.  They  are 
characterized  only  by  negative  possessions ;  without  habitations, 
without  water,  without  trees,  without  mountains,  they  support  only 
a  few  dwarf  plants.  Why,  then  —  and  the  case  is  not  peculiar  to 
myself —  have  these  arid  wastes  taken  so  firm  possession  of  my 
mifid?  Why  have  not  the  still  more  level,  the  greener  and  more 
fertile  pampas,  which  are  serviceable  to  mankind,  produced  an 
equal  impression  ?  I  can  scarcely  analyze  these  feelings,  but  it 
must  be  partly  owing  to  the  free  scope  given  to  the  imagination. 
The  plains  of  Patagonia  are  boundless,  for  they  are  scarcely  practi- 
cable, and  hence  unknown ;  they  bear  the  stamp  of  having  thus 
lasted  for  ages,  and  there  appears  no  limit  to  their  duration  through 
future  time.  If,  as  the  ancients  supposed,  the  flat  earth  was  sur- 
rounded by  an  impassable  breadth  of  water,  or  by  deserts  heated 
to  an  intolerable  excess,  who  would  not  look  at  these  last  bound- 
aries to  man's  knowledge  with  deep  but  ill-defined  sensations  ?  " 

That  he  did  not  in  this  passage  hit  on  the  right  explanation  of 
the  sensations  he  experienced  in  Patagonia,  and  of  the  strength 
of  the  impressions  it  made  on  his  mind,  I  am  quite  convinced ; 
for  the  thing  is  just  as  true  of  to-day  as  of  the  time,  in  1836, 
when  he  wrote  that  the  case  was  not  peculiar  to  himself.  Yet 
since  that  date  —  which  now,  thanks  to  Darwin,  seems  so  remote 
to  the  naturalist  —  those  desolate  regions  have  ceased  to  be  imprac- 
ticable, and,  although  still  uninhabited  and  uninhabitable,  except 
to  a  few  nomads,  they  are  no  longer  unknown.  During  the  last 
twenty  years  the  country  has  been  crossed  in  various  directions, 
from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Andes,  and  from  the  Rio  Negro  to  the 


PV.    H.    HUDSOJV  31 

Straits  of  Magellan,  and  has  been  found  all  barren.  The  myste- 
rious illusive  city,  peopled  by  whites,  which  was  long  believed  to 
exist  in  the  unknown  interior,  in  a  valley  called  Trapalanda,  is  to 
moderns  a  myth,  a  mirage  of  the  mind,  as  little  to  the  traveller's 
imagination  as  the  glittering  capital  of  great  Manoa,  which  Alonzo 
Pizarro  and  his  false  friend  Orellana  failed  to  discover.  The  trav- 
eller of  to-day  really  expects  to  see  nothing  more  exciting  than 
a  solitary  huanaco  keeping  watch  on  a  hill-top,  and  a  few  grey- 
plumaged  rheas  flying  from  him,  and,  possibly,  a  band  of  long- 
haired roving  savages,  with  their  faces  painted  black  and  red. 
Yet,  in  spite  of  accurate  knowledge,  the  old  charm  still  exists  in 
all  its  freshness ;  and  after  all  the  discomforts  and  sufferings 
endured  in  a  desert  cursed  with  eternal  barrenness,  the  returned 
traveller  finds  in  after  years  that  it  still  keeps  its  hold  on  him, 
that  it  shines  brighter  in  memory,  and  is  dearer  to  him  than  any 
other  region  he  may  have  visited. 

We  know  that  the  more  deeply  our  feelings  are  moved  by  any 
scene  the  more  vivid  and  lasting  will  its  image  be  in  memory  — 
a  fact  which  accounts  for  the  comparatively  unfading  character 
of  the  images  that  date  back  to  the  period  of  childhood,  when 
we  are  most  emotional.  Judging  from  my  own  case,  I  believe 
that  we  have  here  the  secret  of  the  persistence  of  Patagonian 
images,  and  their  frequent  recurrence  in  the  minds  of  many  who 
have  visited  that  grey,  monotonous,  and,  in  one  sense,  eminently 
uninteresting  region.  It  is  not  the  effect  of  the  unknown,  it  is 
not  imagination  ;  it  is  that  nature  in  these  desolate  scenes,  for  a 
reason  to  be  guessed  at  by  and  by,  moves  us  more  deeply  than 
in  others.  In  describing  his  rambles  in  one  of  the  most  desolate 
spots  in  Patagonia,  Darwin  remarks  :  "  Yet,  in  passing  over  these 
scenes,  without  one  bright  object  near,  an  ill-defined  but  strong 
sense  of  pleasure  is  vividly  excited."  When  I  recall  a  Patagonian 
scene,  it  comes  before  me  so  complete  in  all  its  vast  extent,  with 
all  its  details  so  clearly  outlined,  that,  if  I  were  actually  gazing  on 
it,  I  could  scarcely  see  it  more  distinctly ;  yet  other  scenes,  even 
those  that  were  beautiful  and  sublime,  with  forest,  and  ocean,  and 
mountain,  and  over  all  the  deep  blue  sky  and  brilliant  sunshine 
of  the  tropics,  appear  no  longer  distinct  and  entire  in  memory, 
and  only  become  more  broken  and  clouded  if  any  attempt  is 


32  THE  PLAINS   OF  PATAGONIA 

made  to  regard  them  attentively.  Here  and  there  I  see  a  wooded 
mountain,  a  grove  of  pahns,  a  flowery  tree,  green  waves  dashing 
on  a  rocky  shore  —  nothing  but  isolated  patches  of  bright  colour, 
the  parts  of  the  picture  that  have  not  faded  on  a  great  blurred 
canvas,  or  series  of  canvases.  These  last  are  images  of  scenes 
which  were  looked  on  with  wonder  and  admiration  —  feelings  which 
the  Patagonian  wastes  could  not  inspire  —  but  the  grey,  monoto- 
nous solitude  woke  other  and  deeper  feelings,  and  in  that  mental 
state  the  scene  was  indelibly  impressed  on  the  mind. 

I  spent  the  greater  part  of  one  winter  at  a  point  on  the  Rio 
Negro,  seventy  or  eighty  miles  from  the  sea,  where  the  valley  on 
my  side  of  the  water  was  about  five  miles  wide.  The  valley  alone 
was  habitable,  where  there  was  water  for  man  and  beast,  and  a 
thin  soil  producing  grass  and  grain  ;  it  is  perfectly  level,  and  ends 
abruptly  at  the  foot  of  the  bank  or  terrace-like  formation  of  the 
higher  barren  plateau.  It  was  my  custom  to  go  out  every  morn- 
ing on  horseback  with  my  gun,  and,  followed  by  one  dog,  to  ride 
away  from  the  valley ;  and  no  sooner  would  I  climb  the  terrace 
and  plunge  into  the  grey  universal  thicket,  than  I  would  find  my- 
self as  completely  alone  and  cut  off  from  all  sight  and  sound  of 
human  occupancy  as  if  five  hundred  instead  of  only  five  miles 
separated  me  from  the  hidden  green  valley  and  river.  So  wild 
and  solitary  and  remote  seemed  that  grey  waste,  stretching  away 
into  infinitude,  a  waste  untrodden  by  man,  and  where  the  wild 
animals  are  so  few  that  they  have  made  no  discoverable  path  in 
the  wilderness  of  thorns.  There  I  might  have  dropped  down  and 
died,  and  my  flesh  been  devoured  by  birds,  and  my  bones  bleached 
white  in  sun  and  wind,  and  no  person  would  have  found  them, 
and  it  would  have  been  forgotten  that  one  had  ridden  forth  in  the 
morning  and  had  not  returned.  Or  if,  like  the  few  wild  animals 
there  —  puma,  huanaco,  and  harehke  dolichotis,  or  Darwin's 
rhea  and  the  crested  tinamou  among  the  birds  —  I  had  been  able 
to  exist  without  water,  I  might  have  made  myself  a  hermitage  of 
brushwood  or  dug-out  in  the  side  of  a  cliff,  and  dwelt  there  until 
I  had  grown  grey  as  the  stones  and  trees  around  me,  and  no 
human  foot  would  have  stumbled  on  my  hiding-place. 

Not  once,  nor  twice,  nor  thrice,  but  day  after  day  I  returned  to 
this  solitude,  going  to  it  in  the  morning  as  if  to  attend  a  festival, 


Pr.    H.    HUDSON  33 

and  leaving  it  only  when  hunger  and  thirst  and  the  westering  sun 
compelled  me.  And  yet  I  had  no  object  in  going  —  no  motive 
which  could  be  put  into  words  ;  for  although  I  carried  a  gun,  there 
was  nothing  to  shoot  —  the  shooting  was  all  left  behind  in  the 
valley.  Sometimes  a  doUchotis,  starting  up  at  my  approach, 
flashed  for  one  moment  on  my  sight,  to  vanish  the  next  moment 
in  the  continuous  thicket ;  or  a  covey  of  tinamous  sprang  rocket- 
like into  the  air,  and  fled  away  with  long  wailing  note  and  loud 
.whur  of  wings ;  or  on  some  distant  hillside  a  bright  patch  of 
yellow,  of  a  deer  that  was  watching  me,  appeared  and  remained 
motionless  for  two  or  three  minutes.  But  the  animals  were  few, 
and  sometimes  I  would  pass  an  entire  day  without  seeing  one 
mammal,  and  perhaps  not  more  than  a  dozen  birds  of  any  size. 
The  weather  at  that  time  was  cheerless,  generally  with  a  grey  film 
of  cloud  spread  over  the  sky,  and  a  bleak  wind,  often  cold  enough 
to  make  my  bridle  hand  feel  quite  numb.  Moreover,  it  was  not 
possible  to  enjoy  a  canter ;  the  bushes  grew  so  close  together  that 
it  was  as  much  as  one  could  do  to  pass  through  at  a  walk  without 
brushing  against  them  ;  and  at  this  slow  pace,  which  would  have 
seemed  intolerable  in  other  circumstances,  I  would  ride  about  for 
hours  at  a  stretch.  In  the  scene  itself  there  was  nothing  to  delight 
the  eye.  Everywhere  through  the  light,  grey  mould,  grey  as  ashes 
and  formed  by  the  ashes  of  myriads  of  generations  of  dead  trees, 
where  the  wind  had  blown  on  it,  or  the  rain  had  washed  it  away, 
the  underlying  yellow  sand  appeared,  and  the  old  ocean- polished 
pebbles,  dull  red,  and  grey,  and  green,  and  yellow.  On  arriving 
at  a  hill,  I  would  slowly  ride  to  its  summit,  and  stand  there  to  sur- 
vey the  prospect.  On  every  side  it  stretched  away  in  great  undu- 
lations ;  but  the  undulations  were  wild  and  irregular ;  the  hills 
were  rounded  and  cone-shaped,  they  were  solitary  and  in  groups 
and  ranges ;  some  sloped  gently,  others  were  ridgelike  and 
stretched  away  in  league-long  terraces,  with  other  terraces  beyond  ; 
and  all  alike  were  clothed  in  the  grey  everlasting  thorny  vegeta- 
tion. How  grey  it  all  was  !  hardly  less  so  near  at  hand  than  on 
the  haze-wrapped  horizon,  where  the  hills  were  dim  and  the  out- 
line blurred  by  distance.  Sometimes  I  would  see  the  large  eagle- 
like, white-breasted  buzzard,  Buteo  erythronotus,  perched  on  the 
summit  of  a  bush  half  a  mile  away ;  and  so  long  as  it  would  con- 

D 


34  THE  PLAINS   OF  PATAGONIA 

tinue  stationed  motionless  before  me  my  eyes  would  remain  invol- 
untarily fixed  on  it,  just  as  one  keeps  his  eyes  on  a  bright  light 
shining  in  the  gloom  ;  for  the  whiteness  of  the  hawk  seemed  to 
exercise  a  fascinating  power  on  the  vision,  so  surpassingly  bright  was 
it  by  contrast  in  the  midst  of  that  universal  unreUeved  greyness. 
Descending  from  my  look-out,  I  would  take  up  my  aimless  wan- 
derings again,  and  visit  other  elevations  to  gaze  on  the  same  land- 
scape from  another  point ;  and  so  on  for  hours,  and  at  noon  I  would 
dismount  and  sit  or  lie  on  my  folded  poncho  for  an  hour  or  longer. 
One  day,  in  these  rambles,  I  discovered  a  small  grove  composed  of 
twenty  to  thirty  trees,  about  eighteen  feet  high,  and  taller  than 
the  surrounding  trees.  They  were  growing  at  a  convenient  dis- 
tance apart,  and  had  evidently  been  resorted  to  by  a  herd  of  deer 
or  other  wild  animals  for  a  very  long  time,  for  the  boles  were 
polished  to  a  glassy  smoothness  with  much  rubbing,  and  the  ground 
beneath  was  trodden  to  a  floor  of  clean,  loose  yellow  sand.  This 
grove  was  on  a  hill  differing  in  shape  from  other  hills  in  its  neigh- 
bourhood, so  that  it  was  easy  for  me  to  find  it  on  other  occasions  ; 
and  after  a  time  I  made  a  point  of  finding  and  using  it  as  a  rest- 
ing-place every  day  at  noon.  I  did  not  ask  myself  why  I  made 
choice  of  that  one  spot,  sometimes  going  miles  out  of  my  way  to 
sit  there,  instead  of  sitting  down  under  any  one  of  the  millions  of 
trees  and  bushes  covering  the  country,  on  any  other  hillside.  I 
thought  nothing  at  afl  about  it,  but  acted  unconsciously ;  only 
afterwards,  when  revolving  the  subject,  it  seemed  to  me  that  after 
having  rested  there  once,  each  time  I  wished  to  rest  again  the 
wish  came  associated  with  the  image  of  that  particular  clump  of 
trees,  with  polished  stems  and  clean  bed  of  sand  beneath ;  and  in 
a  short  time  I  formed  a  habit  of  returning,  animal-like,  to  repose 
at  that  same  spot. 

It  was  perhaps  a  mistake  to  say  that  I  would  sit  down  and  rest, 
since  I  was  never  tired  :  and  yet  without  being  tired,  that  noon- 
day pause,  during  which  I  sat  for  an  hour  without  moving,  was 
strangely  grateful.  All  day  the  silence  seemed  grateful,  it  was 
very  perfect,  very  profound.  There  were  no  insects,  and  the  only 
bird  sound  —  a  feeble  chirp  of  alarm  emitted  by  a  small  skulking 
wrenlike  species  —  was  not  heard  oftener  than  two  or  three  times 
an  hour.     The  only  sounds  as  I  rode  were  the  muffled  hoof-strokes 


W.   H.   HUDSON  35 

of  my  horse,  scratching  of  twigs  against  my  boot  or  saddle-flap, 
and  the  low  panting  of  the  dog.  And  it  seemed  to  be  a  relief  to 
escape  even  from  these  sounds  when  I  dismounted  and  sat  down  : 
for  in  a  few  moments  the  dog  would  stretch  his  head  out  on  his 
paws  and  go  to  sleep,  and  then  there  would  be  no  sound,  not  even 
the  rustle  of  a  leaf.  For  unless  the  wind  blows  strong  there  is  no 
fluttering  motion  and  no  whisper  in  the  small  stiff  undeciduous 
leaves ;  and  the  bushes  stand  unmoving  as  if  carved  out  of  stone. 
One  day  while  listening  to  the  silence,  it  occurred  to  my  mind  to 
wonder  what  the  effect  would  be  if  I  were  to  shout  aloud.  This 
seemed  at  the  time  a  horrible  suggestion  of  fancy,  a  "  lawless  and 
uncertain  thought "  which  almost  made  me  shudder,  and  I  was 
anxious  to  dismiss  it  quickly  from  my  mind.  But  during  those 
solitary  days  it  was  a  rare  thing  for  any  thought  to  cross  my 
mind  ;  animal  forms  did  not  cross  my  vision  or  bird-voices  assail 
my  hearing  more  rarely.  In  that  novel  state  of  mind  I  was  in, 
thought  had  become  impossible.  Elsewhere  I  had  always  been 
able  to  think  most  freely  on  horseback ;  and  on  the  pampas,  eVen 
in  the  most  lonely  places,  my  mind  was  always  most  active  when 
I  travelled  at  a  swinging  gallop.  This  was  doubtless  habit ;  but 
now,  with  a  horse  under  me,  I  had  become  incapable  of  reflection  : 
my  mind  had  suddenly  transformed  itself  from  a  thinking  machine 
into  a  machine  for  some  other  unknown  purpose.  To  think  was 
like  setting  in  motion  a  noisy  engine  in  my  brain  ;  and  there  was 
something  there  which  bade  me  be  still,  and  I  was  forced  to  obey. 
My  state  was  one  of  suspense  and  ivakhfulness ;  yet  I  had  no 
expectation  of  meeting  with  an  adventure,  and  felt  as  free  from 
apprehension  as  I  feel  now  when  sitting  in  a  room  in  London. 
The  change  in  me  was  just  as  great  and  wonderful  as  if  I  had 
changed  riiy  identity  for  that  of  another  man  or  animal ;  but  at 
the  time  I  was  powerless  to  wonder  at  or  speculate  about  it ;  the 
state  seemed  familiar  rather  than  strange,  and  although  accom- 
panied by  a  strong  feeling  of  elation,  I  did  not  know  it  —  did  not 
know  that  something  had  come  between  me  and  my  intellect  — 
until  I  lost  it  and  returned  to  my  former  self — to  thinking,  and 
the  old  insipid  existence. 

Such  changes  in  us,  however  brief  in  duration  they  may  be,  and 
in  most  cases  they  are  very  brief,  but  which  so  long  as  they  last 


36  THE  PLAINS   OF  PATAGONIA 

seem  to  affect  us  down  to  the  very  roots  of  our  being,  and  come 
as  a  great  surprise  —  a  revelation  of  an  unfamiliar  and  unsuspected 
nature  hidden  under  the  nature  we  are  conscious  of — can  only 
be  attributed  to  an  instantaneous  reversion  to  the  primitive  and 
wholly  savage  mental  conditions.  .  .  . 

It  is  true  that  we  are  eminently  adaptive,  that  we  have  created, 
and  exist  in  some  sort  of  harmony  with  new  conditions,  widely 
different  from  those  to  which  we  were  originally  adapted  ;  but  the 
old  harmony  was  infinitely  more  perfect  than  the  new,  and  if  there 
be  such  a  thing  as  historical  memory  in  us,  it  is  not  strange  that 
the  sweetest  moment  in  any  life,  pleasant  or  dreary,  should  be 
when  Nature  draws  near  to  it,  and,  taking  up  her  neglected  instru- 
ment, plays  a  fragment  of  some  ancient  melody,  long  unheard  on 
the  earth. 

It  might  be  asked  :  If  nature  has  at  times  this  peculiar  effect 
on  us,  restoring  instantaneously  the  old  vanished  harmony  between 
organism  and  environment,  why  should  it  be  experienced  in  a 
greater  degree  in  the  Patagonian  desert  than  in  other  solitary 
places,  —  a  desert  which  is  waterless,  where  animal  voices  are  sel- 
dom heard,  and  vegetation  is  grey  instead  of  green?     I  can  only 

ggest  a  reason  for  the  effect  being  so  much  greater  in  my  own 


su 


&& 


case.  In  subtropical  woods  and  thickets,  and  in  wild  forests  in 
temperate  regions,  the  cheerful  verdure  and  bright  colours  of  flower 
and  insects,  if  we  have  acquired  a  habit  of  looking  closely  at  these 
things,  and  the  melody  and  noises  of  bird-life  engage  the  senses ; 
there  is  movement  and  brightness ;  new  forms,  animal  and 
vegetable,  afe  continually  appearing,  curiosity  and  expectation  are 
excited,  and  the  mind  is  so  much  occupied  with  novel  objects  that 
the  effect  of  wild  nature  in  its  entirety  is  minimized.  In  Patagonia 
the  monotony  of  the  plains,  or  expanse  of  low  hills,  the  universal 
unrelieved  greyness  of  everything,  and  the  absence  of  animal  forms 
and  objects  new  to  the  eye,  leave  the  mind  open  and  free  to  receive 
an  impression  of  visible  nature  as  a  whole.  One  gazes  on  the 
prospect  as  on  the  sea,  for  it  stretches  away  sealike  without 
change,  into  infinitude ;  but  without  the  sparkle  of  water,  the 
changes  of  hue  which  shadows  and  sunlight  and  nearness  and  dis- 
tance give,  and  motion  of  waves  and  white  flash  of  foam.  It  has 
a  look  of  antiquity,  of  desolation,  of  eternal  peace,  of  a  desert  that 


W.   H.   HUDSON  37 

has  been  a  desert  from  of  old  and  will  continue  a  desert  forever ; 
and  we  know  that  its  only  human  inhabitants  are  a  few  wandering 
savages,  who  live  by  hunting  as  their  progenitors  have  done  for 
thousands  of  years.  Again,  in  fertile  savannahs  and  pampas  there 
may  appear  no  signs  of  human  occupancy,  but  the  traveller  knows 
that  eventually  the  advancing  tide  of  humanity  will  come  with  its 
flocks  and  herds,  and  the  ancient  silence  and  desolation  will  be 
no  more ;  and  this  thought  is  like  human  companionship,  and 
mitigates  the  effect  of  nature's  wildness  on  the  spirit.  In  Patago- 
nia no  such  thought  or  dream  of  the  approaching  changes  to 
be  wrought  by  human  agency  can  affect  the  mind.  There  is  no 
water  there,  the  arid  soil  is  sand  and  gravel  —  pebbles  rounded  by 
the  action  of  ancient  seas,  before  Europe  was ;  and  nothing  grows 
except  the  barren  things  that  nature  loves  ■ —  thorns,  and  a  few 
woody  herbs,  and  scattered  tufts  of  wiry  bitter  grass. 


THE   WORLD'S    END 

GEORGE  BORROW 

[From  volume  ii,  chapter  12,  of  The  Bible  in  Spain ;  or  the  Journeys, 
Adventures,  and  Imprisonments  of  an  Englishman,  in  an  Attempt  to  Circu- 
late the  Scriptures  in  the  Peninsula^  1843.] 

It  was  a  beautiful  autumnal  morning  when  we  left  the  choza 
[hut]  and  pursued  our  way  to  Corcuvion,  I  satisfied  my  host  by 
presenting  him  with  a  couple  of  pesetas,  and  he  requested  as  a 
favour,  that  if  on  our  return  we  passed  that  way,  and  were  over- 
taken by  the  night,  we  would  again  take  up  our  abode  beneath  his 
roof.  This  I  promised,  at  the  same  time  determining  to  do  my 
best  to  guard  against  the  contingency ;  as  sleeping  in  the  loft  of  a 
Gallegan  hut,  though  preferable  to  passing  the  night  on  a  moor  or 
mountain,  is  anything  but  desirable. 

So  we  again  started  at  a  rapid  pace  along  rough  bridle-ways  and 
footpaths,  amidst  furze  and  brushwood.  In  about  an  hour  we 
obtained  a  view  of  the  sea,  and  directed  by  a  lad,  whom  we  found 
on  the  moor  employed  in  tending  a  few  miserable  sheep,  we  bent 


38  THE    WORLD'S  END 

our  course  to  the  northwest,  ancj  at  length  reached  the  brow  of 
the  eminence,  where  we  stopped  for  some  time  to  survey  the 
prospect  which  opened  before  us. 

It  was  not  without  reason  that  the  Latins  gave  the  name  of 
Finisterrae  to  this  district.  We  had  arrived  exactly  at  such  a  place 
as  in  my  boyhood  I  had  pictured  to  myself  as  the  termination  of 
the  world,  beyond  which  there  was  a  wild  sea,  or  abyss,  or  chaos. 
I  now  saw  far  before  me  an  immense  ocean,  and  below  me  a  long 
and  irregular  line  of  lofty  and  precipitous  coast.  Certainly  in  the 
whole  world  there  is  no  bolder  coast  than  the  Gallegan  shore,  from 
the  debouchement  of  the  Minho  to  Cape  Finisterra.  It  consists 
of  a  granite  wall  of  savage  mountain,  for  the  most  part  serrated  at 
the  top,  and  occasionally  broken,  where  bays  and  firths  like  those 
of  Vigo  and  Pontevedra  intervene,  running  deep  into  the  land. 
These  bays  and  firths  are  invariably  of  an  immense  depth,  and 
sufficiently  capacious  to  shelter  the  navies  of  the  proudest  maritime 
nations.  » 

There  is  an  air  of  stern  and  savage  grandeur  in  everything 
around,  which  strongly  captivates  the  imagination.  This  savage 
coast  is  the  first  glimpse  of  Spain  which  the  voyager  from  the  north 
catches,  or  he  who  has  ploughed  his  way  across  the  wide  Atlantic  : 
and  well  does  it  seem  to  realize  all  his  visions  of  this  strange  land. 
"  Yes,"  he  exclaims,  "  this  is  indeed  Spain  —  stern  flinty  Spain  — 
land  emblematic  of  those  spirits  to  which  she  has  given  birth. 
From  what  land  but  that  before  me  could  have  proceeded  those 
portentous  beings  who  astounded  the  Old  World  and  filled  the 
New  with  horror  and  blood  :  Alba  and  Philip,  Cortez  and  Pizarro  ; 
stern  colossal  spectres,  looming  through  the  gloom  of  bygone  years, 
like  yonder  granite  mountains  through  the  haze  upon  the  eye  of 
the  mariner.  Yes,  yonder  is  indeed  Spain  ;  flinty,  indomitable 
Spain ;  land  emblematic  of  its  sons  !  " 

As  for  myself,  when  I  viewed  that  wide  ocean  and  its  savage 
shore,  I  cried  :  "  Such  is  the  grave,  and  such  are  its  terrific  sides  ; 
those  moors  and  wilds,  over  which  I  have  passed,  are  the  rough 
and  dreary  journey  of  life.  Cheered  with  hope,  we  struggle  along 
through  all  the  difficulties  of  moor,  bog,  and  mountain,  to  arrive 
at  —  what?  The  grave  and  its  dreary  sides.  Oh,  may  hope  not 
desert  us  in  the  last  hour  :  hope  in  the  Redeemer  and  in  God  ! " 


GEORGE  BORROW  39 

We  descended  from  the  eminence,  and  again  lost  sight  of  the 
sea  amidst  ravines  and  dingles,  amongst  which  patches  of  pine 
were  occasionally  seen.  Continuing  to  descend,  we  at  last  came, 
not  to  the  sea,  but  to  the  extremity  of  a  long  narrow  firth,  where 
stood  a  village  or  hamlet ;  whilst  at  a  small  distance,  on  the  western 
side  of  the  firth,  appeared  one  considerably  larger,  which  was  in- 
deed almost  entitled  to  the  appellation  of  town.  This  last  was 
Corcuvion ;  the  first,  if  I  forget  not,  was  called  Ria  de  Silla.  We 
hastened  on  to  Corcuvion,  where  I  bade  my  guide  make  inquiries 
respecting  Finisterra.  He  entered  the  door  of  a  wine-house, 
from  which  proceeded  much  noise  and  vociferation,  and  presently 
returned,  informing  me  that  the  village  of  Finisterra  was  distant 
about  a  league  and  a  half.  A  man,  evidently  in  a  state  of  intoxi- 
cation, followed  him  to  the  door:  "Are  you  bound  for  Finisterra, 
Cavalheiros  [sirs]?"  he  shouted. 

"Yes,  my  friend,"  I  rephed,  "we  are  going  thither." 

"  Then  you  are  going  amongst  a  flock  of  drunkards  {fato  de 
barrachos),''  he  answered.  "Take  care  they  do  not  play  you  a 
trick." 

We  passed  on,  and  striking  across  a  sandy  peninsula  at  the  back 
of  the  town,  soon  reached  the  shore  of  an  immense  bay,  the  nortli- 
westernmost  end  of  which  was  formed  by  the  far-famed  cape  of 
Finisterra,  which  we  now  saw  before  us  stretching  far  into  the  sea. 

Along  a  beach  of  dazzling  white  sand,  we  advanced  towards  the 
cape,  the  bourne  of  our  journey.  The  sun  was  shining  brightly, 
and  every  object  was  illumined  by  his  beams.  The  sea  lay  before 
us  like  a  vast  mirror,  and  the  waves  which  broke  upon  the  shore 
were  so  tiny  as  scarcely  to  produce  a  murmur.  On  we  sped  along 
the  deep  winding  bay,  overhung  by  gigantic  hills  and  mountains. 
Strange  recollections  began  to  throng  upon  my  mind.  It  was 
upon  this  beach  that,  according  to  the  tradition  of  all  ancient 
Christendom,  Saint  James,  the  patron  saint  of  Spain,  preached 
the  gospel  to  the  heathen  Spaniards.  Upon  this  beach  had  once 
stood  an  immense  commercial  city,  the  proudest  of  all  Spain. 
This  now  desolate  bay  had  once  resounded  with  the  voices  of 
myriads,  when  the  keels  and  commerce  of  all  the  then  known 
world  were  wafted  to  Duyo. 

"What  is  the  name  of  this  village?"  said  I  to  a  woman,  as  we 


40  THE    WORLD'S  END 

passed  by  five  or  six  ruinous  houses  at  the  bend  of  the  bay,  ere  we 
entered  upon  the  peninsula  of  Finisterra. 

"  This  is  no  village,"  said  the  Gallegan,  "  this  is  no  village,  Sir 
Cavalier,  this  is  a  city,  this  is  Duyo." 

So  much  for  the  glory  of  the  world  !  These  huts  were  all  that 
the  roaring  sea  and  the  tooth  of  time  had  left  of  Duyo,  the  great 
city  !     Onward  now  to  Finisterra. 

It  was  midday  when  we  reached  the  village  of  Finisterra,  con- 
sisting of  about  one  hundred  houses,  and  built  on  the  southern 
side  of  the  peninsula,  just  before  it  rises  into  the  huge  bluff  head 
which  is  called  the  Cape.  We  sought  in  vain  for  an  inn  or  venta, 
where  we  might  stable  our  beast ;  at  one  moment  we  thought  that 
we  had  found  one,  and  had  even  tied  the  animal  to  the  manger. 
Upon  our  going  out,  however,  he  was  instantly  untied  and  driven 
forth  into  the  street.  The  few  people  whom  we  saw  appeared  to 
gaze  upon  us  in  a  singular  manner.  We,  however,  took  little 
notice  of  these  circumstances,  and  proceeded  along  the  straggling 
street  until  we  found  shelter  in  the  house  of  a  Castilian  shopkeeper, 
whom  some  chance  had  brought  to  this  corner  of  Galicia  —  this 
end  of  the  world.  Our  first  care  was  to  feed  the  animal,  who  now 
began  to  exhibit  considerable  symptoms  of  fatigue.  We  then 
requested  some  refreshment  for  ourselves  ;  and  in  about  an  hour, 
a  tolerably  savory  fish,  weighing  about  three  pounds,  and  fresh 
from  the  bay,  was  prepared  for  us  by  an  old  woman  who  appeared 
to  officiate  as  housekeeper.  Having  finished  our  meal,  I  and  my 
uncouth  companion  went  forth  and  prepared  to  ascend  the 
mountain. 

We  stopped  to  examine  a  small,  dismantled  fort  or  battery  facing 
the  bay;  and  whilst  engaged  in  this  examination,  it  more  than 
once  occurred  to  me  that  we  were  ourselves  the  objects  of  scrutiny 
and  investigation  :  indeed,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  more  than  one 
countenance  peering  upon  us  through  the  holes  and  chasms  of  the 
walls.  We  now  commenced  ascending  Finisterra  ;  and  making 
numerous  and  long  detours,  we  wound  our  way  up  its  flinty  sides. 
The  sun  had  reached  the  top  of  heaven,  whence  he  showered  upon 
us  perpendicularly  his  brightest  and  fiercest  rays.  My  boots  were 
torn,  my  feet  cut,  and  the  perspiration  streamed  from  my  brow. 
To  my  guide,  however,  the  ascent  appeared  to  be  neither  toilsome 


GEORGE  BORROW  4 1 

nor  difficult.  The  heat  of  the  day  for  him  had  no  terrors,  no 
rhoisture  was  wrung  from  his  tanned  countenance  ;  he  drew  not 
one  short  breath,  and  hopped  upon  the  stones  and  rocks  with  all 
the  provoking  agility  of  a  mountain  goat.  Before  we  had  accom- 
plished one-half  of  the  ascent,  I  felt  myself  quite  exhausted.  I 
reeled  and  staggered.  "  Cheer  up,  master  mine,  be  of  good  cheer, 
and  have  no  care,"  said  the  guide.  "  Yonder  I  see  a  wall  of  stones  ; 
lie  down  beneath  it  in  the  shade."  He  put  his  long  and  strong 
arm  round  my  waist,  and  though  his  stature  compared  with  mine 
was  that  of  a  dwarf,  he  supported  me,  as  if  I  had  been  a  child,  to 
a  rude  wall  which  seemed  to  traverse  the  greatest  part  of  the  hill, 
and  served  probably  as  a  kind  of  boundary.  It  was  difficult  to 
find  a  shady  spot :  at  last  he  perceived  a  small  chasm,  perhaps 
scooped  by  some  shepherd  as  a  couch  in  which  to  enjoy  his  siesta. 
In  this  he  laid  me  gently  down,  and  taking  off  his  enormous  hat, 
commenced  fanning  me  with  great  assiduity.  By  degrees  I  re- 
vived, and  after  having  rested  for  a  considerable  time,  I  again 
attempted  the  ascent,  which,  with  the  assistance  of  my  guide,  I  at 
length  accomplished. 

We  were  now  standing  at  a  great  altitude  between  two  bays  : 
the  wilderness  of  waters  before  us.  Of  all  the  ten  thousand  barks 
which  annually  plough  those  seas-  in  sight  of  that  old  cape,  not  one 
was  to  be  descried.  'It  was  a  blue  shiny  waste,  broken  by  no 
object  save  the  black  head  of  a  spermaceti  whale,  which  would 
occasionally  show  itself  on  the  top,  casting  up  thin  jets  of  brine. 
The  principal  bay,  that  of  Finisterra,  as  far  as  the  entrance,  was 
beautifully  variegated  by  an  immense  shoal  of  sardinhas,  on  whose 
extreme  skirts  the  monster  was  probably  feasting.  From  the  north- 
ern side  of  the  cape  we  looked  down  upon  a  smaller  bay,  the  shore 
of  which  was  overhung  by  rocks  of  various  and  grotesque  shapes  ; 
this  is  called  the  outer  bay,  or,  in  the  language  of  the  country, 
Prai  do  mar  de  fora  :  a  fearful  place  in  seasons  of  wind  and  tem- 
pests, when  the  long  swell  of  the  Atlantic  pouring  in,  is  broken 
into  surf  and  foam  by  the  sunken  rocks  with  which  it  abounds. 
Even  in  the  calmest  day  there  is  a  rumbling  and  a  hollow  roar  in 
that  bay  which  fill  the  heart  with  uneasy  sensations. 

On  all  sides  there  was  grandeur  and  sublimity.  After  gazing 
from  the  summit  of  the  cape  for  nearly  an  hour,  we  descended. 


42  WEE    WILLIE  .  WINKLE 

WEE   WILLIE   WINKIE 

RUDYARD   KIPLING 

[From  Wee  Willie  Winkie  and  Other  Stories,  1888.  The  text  is  that  of 
the  unauthorized  American  edition.] 

"  An  officer  and  a  gentleman." 

His  full  name  was  Percival  William  Williams,  but  he  picked  up 
the  other  name  in  a  nursery-book,  and  that  was  the  end  of  the 
christened  titles.  His  mother's  ayah  called  him  ^\Vi\Q-Baba,  but 
as  he  never  paid  the  faintest  attention  to  anything  that  the  ayah 
said,  her  wisdom  did  not  help  matters. 

His  father  was  the  colonel  of  the  195th,  and  as  soon  as  Wee 
Willie  Winkie  was  old  enough  to  understand  what  military  disci- 
pline meant.  Colonel  Williams  put  him  under  it.  There  was  no 
other  way  of  managing  the  child.  When  he  was  good  for  a  week, 
he  drew  good-conduct  pay;  and  when  he  was  bad,  he  was  deprived 
of  his  good-conduct  stripe.  Generally  he  was  bad,  for  India  offers 
so  many  chances  to  little  six-year-olds  of  going  wrong. 

Children  resent  familiarity  from  strangers,  and  Wee  Willie 
Winkie  was  a  very  particular  child.  Once  he  accepted  an 
acquaintance,  he  was  graciously  pleased  to  thaw.  He  accepted 
Brandis,  a  subaltern  of  the  195th,  on  sight.  Brandis  was  having 
tea  at  the  colonel's,  and  Wee  Willie  Winkie  entered,  strong  in  the 
possession  of  a  good-conduct  badge  won  for  not  chasing  the  hens 
round  the  compound.  He  regarded  Brandis  with  gravity  for  at 
least  ten  minutes,  and  then  delivered  himself  of  his  opinion. 

"  I  like  you,"  said  he,  slowly,  getting  off  his  chair  and  coming 
over  .to  Brandis.  "  I  like  you.  I  shall  call  you  Coppy,  because 
of  your  hair.  Do  yeu  mind  being  called  Coppy  ?  it  is  because  of 
ve  hair,  you  know." 

Here  was  one  of  the  most  embarrassing  of  Wee  Willie  Winkie's 
peculiarities.  He  would  look  at  a  stranger  for  some  time,  and 
then,  without  warning  or  explanation,  would  give  him  a  name. 
And  the  name  st^ick.  No  regimental  penalties  could  break  Wee 
Willie  Winkie  of  this  habit.  He  lost  his  good-conduct  badge  for 
christening  the  commissioner's  wife  "  Fobs  "  ;  but  nothing  that  the 


RUDYARD  KIPLING  43 

colonel  could  do  made  the  station  forego  the  nickname,  and  Mrs. 
Collen  remained  Mrs.  "  Fobs  "  till  the  end  of  her  stay.  So  Brandis 
was  christened  "  Coppy,"  and  rose,  therefore,  in  the  estimation  of 
the  regiment. 

If  Wee  WiUie  Winkie  took  an  interest  in  any  one,  the  fortunate 
man  was  envied  alike  by  the  mess  and  the  rank  and  file.  And  in 
their  envy  lay  no  suspicion  of  self-interest.  "  The  colonel's  son  " 
was  idohzed  on  his  own  merits  entirely.  Yet  Wee  Willie  Winkie 
was  not  lovely.  His  face  was  permanently  freckled,  as  his  legs 
were  permanently  scratched,  and  in  spite  of  his  mother's  almost 
tearful  remonstrances  he  had  insisted  upon  having  his  long  yellow 
locks  cut  short  in  the  mihtary  fashion.  "  I  want  my  hair  like 
Sergeant  Tummil's,"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  and  his  father 
abetting,  the  sacrifice  was  accomplished. 

Three  weeks  after  the  bestowal  of  his  youthful  affections  on 
'Lieutenant  Brandis  —  henceforward  to  be  called  "  Coppy "  for 
the  sake  of  brevity  —  Wee  WilUe  Winkie  was  destined  to  behold 
strange  things  and  far  beyond  his  comprehension. 

Coppy  returned  his  liking  with  interest.  Coppy  had  let  him 
wear  for  five  rapturous  minutes  his  own  big  sword  —  just  as  tall  as 
Wee  Willie  Winkie.  Coppy  had  promised  him  a  terrier  puppy ; 
and  Coppy  had  permitted  him  to  witness  the  miraculous  operation 
of  shaving.  Nay,  more  —  Coppy  had  said  that  even  he.  Wee 
Willie  Winkie,  would  rise  in  time  to  the  ownership  of  a  box  of 
shiny  knives,-  a  silver  soap-box,  and  a  silver-handled  "  sputter- 
brush,"  as  Wee  Willie  Winkie  called  it.  Decidedly,  there  was 
no  one  except  his  father,  who  could  give  or  take  away  good- 
conduct  badges  at  pleasure,  half  so  wise,  strong,  and  valiant  as 
Coppy  with  the  Afghan  and  Egyptian  medals  on  his  breast.  Why, 
then,  should  Coppy  be  guilty  of  the  unmanly  weakness  of  kissing 
—  vehemently  kissing  —  a  "big  girl,"  Miss  Allardyce,  to  wit?  In 
the  course  of  a  morning  ride.  Wee  Willie  Winkie  had  seen  Coppy 
so  doing,  and,  like  the  gentleman  he  was,  had  promptly  wheeled 
round  and  cantered  back  to  his  groom,  lest  the  groom  should 
also  see. 

Under  ordinary  circumstances  he  would  have  spoken  to  his 
father,  but  he  felt  instinctively  that  this  was  a  matter  on  which 
Coppy  ought  first  to  be  consulted. 


44  ^^E   WILLIE    WINKIE 

"  Coppy,"  shouted  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  reining  up  outside  that 
subaltern's  bungalow  early  one  morning,  "  I  want  to  see  you, 
Coppy  !  " 

"  Come  in,  young  'un,"  returned  Coppy,  who  was  at  early 
breakfast  in  the  midst  of  his  dogs.  "  What  mischief  have  you 
been  getting  into  now?" 

Wee  Willie  Winkie  had  done  nothing  notoriously  bad  for  thrfie 
days,  and  so  stood  on  a  pinnacle  of  virtue. 

"  I've  been  doing  nothing  bad,"  said  he,  curling  himself  into  a 
long  chair  with  a  studious  affectation  of  the  colonel's  languor  after 
a  hot  parade.  He  buried  his  freckled  nose  in  a  tea-cup  and,  with 
eyes  staring  roundly  over  the  rim,  asked  :  "  I  say,  Coppy,  is  it 
pwoper  to  kiss  big  girls?" 

"  By  Jove  !  You're  beginning  early.  Who  do  you  want  to 
kiss?" 

"  No  one.  My  muvver's  always  kissing  me  if  I  don't  stop  her. 
If  it  isn't  pwoper,  how  was  you  kissing  Major  Allardyce's  big  girl 
last  morning,  by  ve  canal  ?  " 

Coppy's  brow  wrinkled.  He  and  Miss  Allardyce  had  with  great 
craft  managed  to  keep  their  engagement  secret  for  a  fortnight. 
There  were  urgent  and  imperative  reasons  why  Major  Allardyce 
should  not  know  how  matters  stood  for  at  least  another  month, 
and  this  small  marplot  had  discovered  a  great  deal  too  much. 

"  I  saw  you,"  said  Wee  Wilhe  Winkie,  calmly.  "  But  ve  groom 
didn't  see.      I  said, '  Hutjao.'  " 

"  Oh,  you  had  that  much  sense,  you  young  rip,"  groaned  poor 
Coppy,  half  amused  and  half  angry.  "And  how  many  people 
may  you  have  told  about  it?  " 

"  Only  me  myself.  You  didn't  tell  when  I  twied  to  wide  ve 
buffalo  ven  my  pony  was  lame  ;  and  I  fought  you  wouldn't  like." 

"  Winkie,"  said  Coppy,  enthusiastically,  shaking  the  small  hand, 
"  you're  the  best  of  good  fellows.  Look  here,  you  can't  under- 
stand all  these  things.  One  of  these  days  —  hang  it,  how  can  I 
make  you  see  it  !  —  I'm  going  to  marry  Miss  Allardyce,  and  then 
she'll  be  Mrs.  Coppy,  as  you  say.  If  your  young  mind  is  so  scan- 
dalized at  the  idea  of  kissing  big  girls,  go  and  tell  your  father." 

"What  will  happen?"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  who  firmly 
believed  that  his  father  was  omnipotent. 


RUDYARD  KIPLING  45 

"  I  shall  get  into  trouble,"  said  Coppy,  playing  his  trump  card 
with  an  appealing  look  at  the  holder  of  the  ace. 

"Yen  I  won't,"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  briefly.  "But  my 
faver  says  it's  un-man-ly  to  be  always  kissing,  and  I  didn't  fink 
yoii'd  do  vat,  Coppy." 

"  I'm  not  always  kissing,  old  chap.  It's  only  now  and  then,  and 
when  you're  bigger  you'll  do  it,  too.  Your  father  meant  it's  not 
good  for  little  boys." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Wee  WiUie  Winkie,  now  fully  enlightened.  "  It's 
like  ve  sputter-brush?" 

"  Exactly,"  said  Coppy,  gravely. 

"  But  I  don't  fink  I'll  ever  want  to  kiss  big  girls,  nor  no  one, 
'cept  my  muvver.     And  I  must  vat,  you  know." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  broken  by  Wee  Willie  Winkie. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  vis  big  girl,  Coppy?  " 

"  Awfully  !  "  said  Coppy. 

"  Fonder  van  you  are  of  Bell  or  ve  Butcha  —  or  me  ?  " 

"  It's  in  a  different  way,"  said  Coppy.  "  You  see,  one  of  these 
days  Miss  Allardyce  will  belong  to  me,  but  you'll  grow  up  and 
command  the  regiment  and  —  all  sorts  of  things.  It's  quite  dif- 
ferent, you  see." 

"Very  well,"  said  Wee  Wilhe  Winkie,  rising.  "  If  you're  fond 
of  ve  big  girl,  I  won't  tell  any  one.     I  must  go  now." 

Coppy  rose  and  escorted  his  small  guest  to  the  door,  adding  : 
"  You're  the  best  of  Uttle  fellows,  Winkie.  1  tell  you  what.  In 
thirty  days  from  now  you  can  tell  if  you  like  —  tell  anyone  you 
hke." 

Thus  the  secret  of  the  Brandis- Allardyce  engagement  was 
dependent  on  a  little  child's  word.  Coppy,  who  knew  Wee 
WiUie  Winkle's  idea  of  truth,  was  at  ease,  for  he  felt  that  he 
would  not  break  promises.  Wee  Willie  Winkie  betrayed  a  special 
and  unusual  interest  in  Miss  Allardyce,  and,  slowly  revolving 
round  that  embarrassed  young  lady,  was  used  to  regard  her 
gravely  with  unwinking  eye.  He  was  trying  to  discover  why 
Coppy  should  have  kissed  her.  She  was  not  half  so  nice  as  his 
own  mother.  On  the  other  hand,  she  was  Coppy's  property,  and 
would  in  time  belong  to  him.  Therefore  it  behooved  him  to  treat 
her  with  as  much  respect  as  Coppy's  big  sword  or  shiny  pistol. 


46  WEE    WILLIE    WINKIE 

The  idea  that  he  shared  a  great  secret  in  common  with  Coppy 
kept  Wee  Willie  Winkle  unusually  virtuous  for  three  weeks.  Then 
the  Old  Adam  broke  out,  and  he  made  what  he  called  a  "  camp 
fire  "  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  How  could  he  have  foreseen 
that  the  flying  sparks  would  have  lighted  the  colonel's  little  hay- 
rick and  consumed  a  week's  store  for  the  horses?  Sudden  and 
swift  was  the  punishment  —  deprivation  of  the  good-conduct 
badge  and,  most  sorrowful  of  all,  two  days'  confinement  to  bar- 
racks —  the  house  and  veranda  —  coupled  with  the  withdrawal 
of  the  light  of  his  father's  countenance. 

He  took  the  sentence  hke  the  man  he  strove  to  be,  drew  him- 
self up  with  a  quivering  under-lip,  saluted,  and,  once  clear  of  the 
room,  ran  to  weep  bitterly  in  his  nursery  —  called  by  him  "my 
quarters."  Coppy  came  in  the  afternoon  and  attempted  to  con- 
sole the  culprit. 

"  I'm  under  awwest,"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkle,  mournfully,  "  and 
I  didn't  ought  to  speak  to  you." 

Very  early  the  next  morning  he  climbed  on  to  the  roof  of  the 
house  —  that  was  not  forbidden  —  and  beheld  Miss  AUardyce 
going  for  a  ride. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  cried  Wee  Wilhe  Winkle. 

"Across  the  river,"  she  answered,  and  trotted  forward. 

Now  the  cantonment  in  which  the  195th  lay  was  bounded  on 
the  north  by  a  river  —  dry  in  the  winter.  From  his  earliest  years, 
Wee  Willie  Winkle  had  been  forbidden  to  go  across  the  river,  and 
had  noted  that  even  Coppy  —  the  almost  almighty  Coppy  —  had 
never  set  foot  beyond  it.  Wee  Willie  Winkle  had  once  been  read 
to,  out  of  a  big  blue  book,  the  history  of  the  princess  and  the 
gobhns  —  a  most  wonderful  tale  of  a  land  where  the  goblins  were 
always  warring  with  the  children  of  men  until  they  were  defeated 
by  one  Curdle.  Ever  "since  that  date  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
bare  black  and  purple  hills  across  the  river  were  inhabited  by 
goblins,  and,  in  truth,  every  one  had  said  that  there  lived  the  bad 
men.  Even  in  his  own  house  the  lower  halves  of  the  windows 
were  covered  with  green  paper  on  account  of  the  bad  men  who 
might,  if  allowed  clear  view,  fire  into  peaceful  drawing-rooms  and 
comfortable  bedrooms.  Certainly,  beyond  the  river,  which  was 
the  end  of  all  the  earth,  lived  the  bad  men.     And  here  was  Major 


RUDYARD  KIPLING  47 

Allardyce's  big  girl,  Coppy's  property,  preparing  to  venture  into 
their  borders  !  What  would  Coppy  say  if  anything  happened  to 
her?  If  the  goblins  ran  off  with  her  as  they  did  with  Curdie's 
princess?     She  must  at  all  hazards  be  turned  back. 

The  house  was  still.  Wee  Willie  Winkie  reflected  for  a  moment 
on  the  very  terrible  wrath  of  his  father ;  and  then  —  broke  his 
arrest !  It  was  a  crime  unspeakable.  The  low  sun  threw  his 
shadow,  very  large  and  very  black,  on  the  trim  garden-paths,  as 
he  went  down  to  the  stables  and  ordered  his  pony.  It  seemed  to 
him  in  the  hush  of  the  dawn  that  all  the  big  world  had  been 
bidden  to  stand  still  and  look  at  Wee  WiUie  Winkie  guilty  of 
mutiny.  The  drowsy  groom  handed  him  his  mount,  and,  since 
the  one  great  sin  made-  all  others  insignificant.  Wee  Willie  Winkie 
said  that  he  was  going  to  ride  over  to  Coppy  Sahib,  and  went  out 
at  a  foot-pace,  stepping  on  the  soft  mould  of  the  flower-borders. 

The  devastating  track  of  the  pony's  feet  was  the  last  misdeed 
that  cut  him  off  from  all  sympathy  of  humanity.  He  turned  into 
the  road,  leaned  forward,  and  rode  as  fast  as  the  pony  could  put 
foot  to  the  ground  in  the  direction  of  the  river. 

But  the  liveliest  of  twelve-two  ponies  can  do  little  against  the 
long  canter  of  a  waler.  Miss  Allardyce  was  far  ahead,  had  passed 
through  the  crops,  beyond  the  pohce-post,  when  all  the  guards 
were  asleep,  and  her  mount  was  scattering  the  pebbles  of  the  river- 
bed as  Wee  Willie  Winkie  left  the  cantonment  and  British  India 
behind  him.  Bowed  forward  and  still  flogging,  Wee  Willie  Winkie 
shot  into  Afghan  territory,  and  could  just  see  Miss  Allardyce,  a 
black  speck,  flickering  across  the  stony  plain.  The  reason  of  her 
wandering  was  simple  enough.  Coppy,  in  a  tone  of  too  hastily 
assumed  authority,  had  told  her  over  night  that  she  must  not  ride 
out  by  the  river.  And  she  had  gone  to  prove  her  own  spirit  and 
teach  Coppy  a  lesson. 

Almost  at  the  foot  of  the  inhospitable  hills,  Wee  Willie  Winkie 
saw  the  waler  blunder  and  come  down  heavily.  Miss  Allardyce 
struggled  clear,  but  her  ankle  had  been  severely  twisted,  and  she 
could  not  stand.  Having  thus  demonstrated  her  spirit,  she  wept 
copiously,  and  was  surprised  by  the  apparition  of  a  white,  wide- 
eyed  child  in  khaki,  on  a  nearly  spent  pony. 

"  Are  you  badly,  badly  hurted  ?  "  shouted  Wee  Willie  Winkie, 


48  IVEE    WILLIE    IVINKIE 

as  soon  as  he  was  within  range.  "You  didn't  ought  to  be 
here." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Allardyce,  ruefully,  ignoring  the 
reproof.     "  Good  gracious,  child,  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"You  said  you  was  going  acwoss  ve  wiver,"  panted  Wee  Willie 
Winkie,  throwing  himself  off  his  pony.  "  And  nobody  —  not  even 
Coppy  —  must  go  acwoss  ve  wiver,  and  I  came  after  you  ever  so 
hard,  but  you  wouldn't  stop,  and  now  you've  hurted  yourself,  and 
Coppy  will  be  angwy  wiv  me,  and  —  I've  bwoken  my  awwest ! 
I've  bwoken  my  awwest !  " 

The  future  colonel  of  the  195th  sat  down  and  sobbed.  In  spite 
of  the  pain  in  her  ankle  the  girl  was  moved. 

"  Have  you  ridden  all  the  way  from  cantonments,  little  man  ? 
What  for  ?  " 

"You  belonged  to  Coppy.  Coppy  told  me  so  !"  wailed  Wee 
Willie  Winkie,  disconsolately.  "  I  saw  him  kissing  you,  and  he 
said  he  was  fonder  of  you  van  Bell  or  ve  Butcha  or  me.  And  so 
I  came.  You  must  get  up  and  come  back.  You  didn't  ought  to 
be  here.     Vis  is  a  bad  place,  and  I've  bwoken  my  awwest." 

"  I  can't  move,  Winkie,"  said  Miss  Allardyce,  with  a  groan. 
"  I've  hurt  my  foot.     What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

She  showed  a  readiness  to  weep  afresh,  which  steadied  Wee 
Willie  Winkie,  who  had  been  brought  up  to  believe  that  tears  were 
the  depth  of  unmanliness.  Still,  when  one  is  as  great  a  sinner  as 
Wee  Willie  Winkie,  even  a  man  may  be  permitted  to  break  down. 

"Winkie,"  said  Miss  Allardyce,  "when  you've  rested  a  little, 
ride  back  and  tell  them  to  send  out  something,  to  carry  me  back 
in.     It  hurts  fearfully." 

The  child  sat  still  for  a  little  time  and  Miss  Allardyce  closed  her 
eyes;  the  pain  was  nearly  making  her  faint.  She  was  roused  by 
Wee  Willie  Winkie  tying  up  the  reins  on  his  pony's  neck  and  set- 
ting it  free  with  a  vicious  cut  of  his  whip  that  made  it  whicker. 
The  little  animal  headed  toward  the  cantonments. 

"  Oh,  Winkie  !     What  are  you  doing  ?  " 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie.  "  Vere's  a  man  coming  — 
one  of  ve  bad  men.  I  must  stay  wiv  you.  My  faver  says  a  man 
must  ahvays  look  after  a  girl.  Jack  will  go  home,  and  ven  vey'U 
come  and  look  for  us.     Vat's  why  I  let  him  go." 


RUDYARD  KIPLING  49 

Not  one  man  but  two  or  three  had  appeared  from  behind  the 
rocks  of  the  hills,  and  the  heart  of  Wee  Willie  Winkie  sunk  within 
him,  for  just  in  this  manner  were  the  goblins  wont  to  steal  out  and 
vex  Curdie's  soul.  Thus  had  they  played  in  Curdie's  garden,  he 
had  seen  the  picture,  and  thus  had  they  frightened  the  princess's 
nurse.  He  heard  them  talking  to  each  other,  and  recognized 
with  joy  the  bastard  Pushto,  that  he  had  picked  up  from  one  of  his 
father's  grooms  lately  dismissed.  People  who  spoke  that  tongue 
could  not  be  the  bad  men.     They  were  only  natives  after  all. 

They  came  up  to  the  boulders  on  which  Miss  Allardyce's  horse 
had  blundered. 

Then  rose  from  the  rock  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  child  of  the  domi- 
nant race,  aged  six  and  three-quarters,  and  said,  briefly  and 
emphatically,  "  Jao  !  "     The  pony  had  crossed  the  river-bed. 

The  men  laughed,  and  laughter  from  the  natives  was  the  one 
thing  Wee  Wilhe  Winkie  could  not  tolerate.  He  asked  them 
what  they  wanted  and  why  they  did  not  depart.  Other  men,  with 
most  evil  faces  and  crooked-stocked  guns,  crept  out  of  the  shadows 
of  the  hills,  till  soon  Wee  Willie  Winkie  was  face  to  face  with  an 
audience  some  twenty  strong.     Miss  AUardyce  screamed. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  said  one  of  the  men. 

"  I  am  the  Colonel  Sahib's  son,  and  my  order  is  that  you  go  at 
once.  You  black  men  are  frightening  the  Miss  Sahib.  One  of 
you  must  run  into  cantonments  and  take  the  news  that  the  Miss 
Sahib  has  hurt  herself,  and  that  the  colonel's  son  is  here  with  her." 

"  Put  our  feet  into  the  trap  ?  "  was  the  laughing  reply.  "  Hear 
this  boy's  speech  !" 

■"  Say  that  I  sent  you  —  I,  the  colonel's  son.  They  will  give  you 
money." 

"  What  is  the  use  of  this  talk?  Take  up  the  child  and  the  girl, 
and  we  can  at  least  ask  for  the  ransom.  Ours  are  the  villages  on 
the  heights,"  said  a  voice  in  the  background. 

These  were  the  bad  men  —  worse  than  the  goblins  —  and  it 
needed  all  Wee  Willie  Winkle's  training  to  prevent  him  from 
bursting  into  tears.  But  he  f^lt  that  to  cry  before  a  native, 
excepting  only  his  mother's  ayah,  would  be  an  infamy  greater 
than  any  mutiny.  Moreover,  he,  as  future  colonel  of  the  195th, 
had  that  grim  regiment  at  his  back. 

£ 


50  WEE    WILLIE    WINK  IE 

"Are  you  going  to  carry  us  away?"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie, 
very  blanched  and  uncomfortable. 

"  Yes,  my  little  Sahib  Bahadur"  said  the  tallest  of  the  men, 
"and  eat  you  afterward." 

"  That  is  child's  talk,"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie.  "  Men  do  not 
eat  men." 

A  yell  of  laughter  interrupted  him,  but  he  went  on,  firmly  : 
"  And  if  you  do  carry  us  away,  I  tell  you  that  all  my  regiment  will 
come  up  in  a  day  and  kill  you  all,  without  leaving  one.  Who  will 
take  my  message  to  the  Colonel  Sahib?  " 

Speech  in  any  vernacular  —  and  Wee  Willie  Winkie  had  a  col- 
loquial acquaintance  with  three  —  was  easy  to  the  boy  who  could 
not  yet  manage  his  "  r's  "  and  "  th's  "  aright. 

Another  man  joined  the  conference,  crying  :  "  Oh,  foohsh  men  ! 
What  this  babe  says  is  true.  He  is  the  heart's  heart  of  those 
white  troops.  For  the  sake  of  peace  let  them  go  both,  for  if  he 
be  taken,  the  regiment  will  break  loose  and  gut  the  valley.  Our 
villages  are  in  the  valley,  and  we  shall  not  escape.  That  regi- 
ment are  devils.  They  broke  Khoda  Yar's  breast-bone  with  kicks 
when  he  tried  to  take  the  rifles ;  and  if  we  touch  this  child,  they 
will  fire  and  rape  and  plunder  for  a  month,  till  nothing  remains. 
Better  to  send  a  man  back  to  take  the  message  and  get  a  reward. 
I  say  that  this  child  is  their  god,  and  that  they  will  spare  none  of 
us,  nor  our  women,  if  we  harm  him." 

It  was  Din  Mahommed,  the  dismissed  groom  of  the  colonel, 
who  made  the  diversion,  and  an  angry  and  heated  discussion 
followed.  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  standing  over  Miss  Allardyce, 
waited  the  upshot.  Surely  his  "  wegiment,"  his  own  "  wegiment," 
would  not  desert  him  if  they  knew  of  his  extremity. 


The  riderless  pony  brought  the  news  to  the  195th,  though  there 
had  been  consternation  in  the  colonel's  household  for  an  hour 
before.  The  little  beast  came  in  through  the  parade-ground  in 
front  of  the  main  barracks,  where  the  men  were  settling  down 
to  play  spoil-five  till  the  afternoon.  Devlin,  the  color-sergeant  of 
E  Company,  glanced  at  the  empty  saddle  and  tumbled  through 
the  barrack-rooms,  kicking  up  each  room  corporal  as  he  passed. 


RUDYARD  KIPLING  5 1 

"  Up,  ye  beggars  !     There's  something  happened  to  the  colonel's 
son,"  he  shouted. 

"  He  couldn't  fall  off!  S'elp  me,  'e  couldn't  fall  off,"  blubbered 
a  drummer-boy.  "  Go  an'  hunt  acrost  the  river.  He's  over  there 
if  he's  anywhere,  an'  maybe  those  Pathans  have  got  'im.  For  the 
love  o'  Gawd  don't  look  for  'im  in  the  nullahs  !  Let's  go  over 
the  river." 

"  There's  sense  in  Mott  yet,"  said  DevHn.  "  E  Company,  double 
out  to  the  river  —  sharp  !  " 

So  E  Company,  in  its  shirt-sleeves  mainly,  doubled  for  the  dear 
life,  and  in  the  rear  toiled  the  perspiring  sergeant,  adjuring  it  to 
double  yet  faster.  The  cantonment  was  alive  with  the  men  of  the 
195th  hunting  for  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  and  the  colonel  finally  over- 
took E  Company,  far  too  exhausted  to  swear,  struggling  in  the 
pebbles  of  the  river-bed. 

Up  the  hill  under  which  Wee  Willie  Winkie's  bad  men  were 
discussing  the  wisdom  of  carrying  off  the  child  and  the  girl, 
a  lookout  fired  two  shots. 

"What  have  I  said?"  shouted  Din  Mahommed.  "There  is  the 
warning  !  The  pulton  are  out  already  and  are  coming  across  the 
plain  !     Get  away  !     Let  us  not  be  seen  with  the  boy  ! " 

The  men  waited  for  an  instant,  and  then,  as  another  shot  was 
fired,  withdrew  into  the  hills,  silently  as  they  had  appeared. 

"  The  wegiment  is  coming,"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  confidently 
to  Miss  Allardyce,  "  and  it's  all  wight.     Don't  cwy  !  " 

He  needed  the  advice  himself,  for  ten  minutes  later,  when  his 
father  came  up,  he  was  weeping  bitterly  with  his  head  in  Miss 
Allardyce's  lap. 

And  the  men  of  the  195th  carried  him  home  with  shouts  and 
rejoicings  ;  and  Coppy,  who  had  ridden  a  horse  into  a  lather, 
met  him,  and,  to  his  intense  disgust,  kissed  him  openly  in  the 
presence  of  the  men. 

But  there  was  balm  for  his  dignity.  His  father  assured  him  that 
not  only  would  the  breaking  of  arrest  be  condoned,  but  that  the 
good-conduct  badge  would  be  restored  as  soon  as  his  mother 
could  sew  it  on  his  blouse-sleeve.  '  Miss  Allardyce  had  told  the 
colonel  a  story  that  made  him  proud  of  his  son. 

"She  belonged  to  you,  Coppy,"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  indi- 


52  THE    CASK   OF  AMONTILLADO 

eating  Miss  Allardyce  with  a  grimy  forefinger.     "  I  knew  she  didn't 

ought  to  go  acwoss  ve  wiver,  and  I  knew  ve  wegiment  would  come 

to  me  if  I  sent  Jack  home." 

"You're  a  hero,  Winkie,"  said  Coppy,  "  ^  pukka  hero  !  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  vat  means,"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  "  but 

you  mustn't  call  me  Winkie  any  no  more.     I'm  Percival  Will'am 

Will'ams." 

And   in    this    manner  did  Wee  Willie  Winkie    enter   into   his 

manhood. 

THE   CASK   OF   AMONTILLADO 

EDGAR   ALLAN   POE 

[First  published  in  1846.     The  text  is  that  of  Griswold's  edition  of  his 
Works,  1850.] 

The  thousand  injuries  of  Fortunato  I  had  borne  as  I  best  could  ; 
but  when  he  ventured  upon  insult,  I  vowed  revenge.  You,  who  so 
well  know  the  nature  of  my  soul,  will  not  suppose,  however,  that 
I  gave  utterance  to  a  threat.  At  length  I  would  be  avenged  j  this 
was  a  point  definitively  settled  —  but  the  very  definitiveness  with 
which  it  was  resolved  precluded  the  idea  of  risk.  I  must  not  only 
punish,  but  punish  with  impunity.  A  wrong  is  unredressed  when 
retribution  overtakes  its  redresser.  It  is  equally  unredressed  when 
the  avenger  fails  to  make  himself  felt  as  such  to  him  who  has  done 
the  wrong. 

It  must  be  understood  that  neither  by  word  nor  deed  had  I 
given  Fortunato  cause  to  doubt  my  good  will.  I  continued,  as 
was  my  wont,  to  smile  in  his  face,  and  he  did  not  perceive  that 
my  smile  now  was  at  the  thought  of  his  immolation. 

He  had  a  weak  point  —  this  Fortunato  —  although  in  other 
regards  he  was  a  man  to  be  respected  and  even  feared.  He 
prided  himself  on  his  connoisseurship  in  wine.  Few  Italians  have 
the  true  virtuoso  spirit.  For  the  most  part  their  enthusiasm  is 
adopted  to  suit  the  time  and  opportunity — to  practise  imposture 
upon  the  British  and  Austrian  ?ninwn7taires.  In  painting  and 
gemmary  Fortunato,  like  his  countrymen,  was  a  quack — but  in  the 
matter  of  old  wines  he  was  sincere.     In  this  respect  I  did  not 


EDGAR  ALLAN  FOE  53 

differ  from  him  materially  :  I  was  skilful  in  the  Italian  vintages 
myself,  and  bought  largely  whenever  I  could. 

It  was  about  dusk,  one  evening  during  the  supreme  madness- 
of  the  carnival  season,  that  I  encountered  my  friend.  He  accosted 
me  with  excessive  warmth,  for  he  had  been  drinking  much.  The 
man  wore  modey.  He  had  on  a  tight-fitting  parti-striped  dress, 
and  his  head  was  surmounted  by  the  conical  cap  and  bells.  I 
was  so  pleased  to  see  him  that  I  thought  I  should  never  have 
done  wringing  his  hand. 

I  said  to  him  —  "My  dear  Fortunato,  you  are  luckily  met. 
How  remarkably  well  you  are  looking  to-day  !  But  I  have  re- 
ceived a  pipe  of  what  passes  for  Amontillado,  and  I  have  my 
doubts." 

"  How  ?  "  said  he.  "  Amontillado  ?  A  pipe  ?  Impossible  !  And 
in  the  middle  of  the  carnival  ?  " 

"  I  have  my  doubts,"  I  replied  ;  "  and  I  was  silly  enough  to 
pay  the  full  Amontillado  price  without  consulting  you  in  the 
matter.  You  were  not  to  be  found,  and  I  was  fearful  of  losing  a 
bargain." 

"  Amontillado  !  " 

"  I  have  my  doubts." 

"  Amontillado  !  " 

"  And  I  must  satisfy  them." 

«  Amontillado  !  " 

"As  you  are  engaged,  I  am  on  my  way  to  Luchesi.  If  any 
one  has  a  critical  turn,  it  is  he.     He  will  tell  me  —  " 

"  Luchesi  cannot  tell  Amontillado  from  Sherry." 

"  And  yet  some  fools  will  have  it  that  his  taste  is  a  match  for 
your  own." 

"  Come,  let  us  go." 

"  Whither  ?  " 

"  To  your  vaults." 

"  My  friend,  no  ;  I  will  not  impose  upon  your  good  nature.  I 
perceive  you  have  an  engagement.     Luchesi  —  " 

"  I  have  no  engagement ;  —  come." 

"  My  friend,  no.  It  is  not  the  engagement,  but  the  severe  cold 
with  which  1  perceive  you  are  affiicted.  The  vaults  are  insufferably 
damp.     They  are  encrusted  with  nitre." 


54  THE   CASK   OF  AMONTILLADO 

"  Let  US  go,  nevertheless.  The  cold  is  merely  nothing.  Amon- 
tillado !  You  have  been  imposed  upon.  And  as  for  Luchesi,  he 
cannot  distinguish  Sherry  from  Amontillado." 

Thus  speaking,  Fortunate  possessed  himself  of  my  arm.  Putting 
on  a  mask  of  black  silk,  and  drawing  a  roqiielaire  closely  about 
my  person,  I  suffered  him  to  hurry  me  to  my  palazzo. 

There  were  no  attendants  at  home ;  they  had  absconded  to 
make  merry  in  honor  of  the  time.  I  had  told  them  that  I  should 
not  return  until  the  morning,  and  had  given  them  explicit  orders 
not  to  stir  from  the  house.  These  orders  were  sufficient,  I  well 
knew,  to  insure  their  immediate  disappearance,  one  and  all,  as 
soon  as  my  back  was  turned. 

I  took  from  their  sconces  two  flambeaux,  and  giving  one  to 
Fortunate,  bowed  him  through  several  suites  of  rooms  to  the  arch- 
way that  led  into  the  vaults.  I  passed  down  a  long  and  winding 
staircase,  requesting  him  to  be  cautious  as  he  followed.  We  came 
at  length  to  the  foot  of  the  descent,  and  stood  together  on  the 
damp  ground  of  the  catacombs  of  the  Montresors. 

The  gait  of  my  friend  was  unsteady,  and  the  bells  upon  his  cap 
jingled  as  he  strode. 

"  The  pipe,"  he  said. 

"  It  is  farther  on,"  said  I ;  "  but  observe  the  white  web-work 
which  gleams  from  these  cavern  walls." 

He  turned  towards  me,  and  looked  into  my  eyes  with  two  filmy 
orbs  that  distilled  the  rheum  of  intoxication. 

"  Nitre  ?  "  he  asked,  at  length. 

"  Nitre,"  I  replied.     "  How  long  have  you  had  that  cough?  " 

"  Ugh  \  ugh  !  ugh  !  —  ugh  !  ugh  !  ugh  !  —  ugh  !  ugh  !  ugh  !  — 
ugh  !  ugh  !  ugh  !  — ugh  !  ugh  !  ugh  !  " 

My  poor  friend  found  it  impossible  to  reply  for  many  minutes. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  he  said,  at  last. 

"Come,"  I  said,  with  decision,  "we  will  go  back;  your  health 
is  precious.  You  are  rich,  respected,  admired,  beloved ;  you  are 
happy,  as  once  I  was.  You  are  a  man  to  be  missed.  For  me  it 
is  no  matter.  We  will  go  back  ;  you  will  be  ill,  and  I  cannot  be 
responsible.     Besides,  there  is  Luchesi  —  " 

"  Enough,"  he  said  ;  "  the  cough  is  a  mere  nothing ;  it  will  not 
kill  me.     I  shall  not  die  of  a  cough." 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  55 

"True  —  true,"  I  replied  ;  "  and,  indeed,  I  had  no  intention  of 
alarming  you  unnecessarily  —  but  you  should  use  all  proper  cau- 
tion.    A  draught  of  this  Medoc  will  defend  us  from  the  damps." 

Here  I  knocked  off  the  neck  of  a  bottle  which  I  drew  from  a 
long  row  of  its  fellows  that  lay  upon  the  mould. 

"  Drink,"  I  said,  presenting  him  the  wine. 

He  raised  it  to  his  lips  with  a  leer.  He  paused  and  nodded  to 
me  familiarly,  while  his  bells  jingled. 

"  I  drink,"  he  said,  "  to  the  buried  that  repose  around  us." 

"  And  I  to  your  long  hfe." 

He  again  took  my  arm,  and  we  proceeded. 

"These  vaults,"  he  said,  "  are  extensive." 

"  The  Montresors,"  I  replied, "  were  a  great  and  numerous  family." 

"  I  forgot  your  arms." 

"  A  huge  human  foot,  d'or,  in  a  field  azure  ;  the  foot  crushes  a 
serpent  rampant  whose  fangs  are  imbedded  in  the  heel." 

"And  the  motto?" 

"  Nemo  me  impune  lacessit."  ^ 

"  Good  !  "  he  said. 

The  wine  sparkled  in  his  eyes  and  the  bells  jingled.  My  own 
fancy  grew  warm  with  the  Medoc.  We  had  passed  through  walls 
of  piled  bones,  with  casks  and  puncheons  intermingling,  into  the 
inmost  recesses  of  the  catacombs.  I  paused  again,  and  this  time 
I  made  bold  to  seize  Fortunato  by  an  arm  above  the  elbow. 

"  The  nitre  !  "  I  said  ;  "  see,  it  increases.  It  hangs  hke  moss 
upon  the  vaults.  We  are  below  the  river's  bed.  The  drops  of 
moisture  trickle  among  the  bones.  Come,  we  will  go  back  ere  it 
is  too  late.     Your  cough  —  " 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  said;  "let  us  go  on.  But  first,  another 
draught  of  the  Medoc." 

I  broke  and  reached  him  a  flagon  of  De  Grave.  He  emptied 
it  at  a  breath.  His  eyes  flashed  with  a  fierce  light.  He  laughed 
and  threw  the  bottle  upwards  with  a  gesticulation  1  did  not  under- 
stand. 

I  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  He  repeated  the  movement  —  a 
grotesque  one. 

"  You  do  not  comprehend  ?  "  he  said. 

1  [No  one  attacks  me  with  impunity.] 


56  THE   CASK   OF  AMONTILLADO 

"  Not  I,"  I  replied. 

"  Then  you  are  not  of  the  brotherhood." 

"  How  ?  " 

"  You  are  not  of  the  masons." 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  said,  "yes,  yes." 

"  You  ?     Impossible  !     A  mason  ?  " 

"A  mason,"  I  replied. 

"  A  sign,"  he  said. 

"  It  is  this,"  I  answered,  producing  a  trowel  from  beneath  the 
folds  of  my  roqicelaire. 

"You  jest,"  he  exclaimed,  recoiling  a  few  spaces.  "But  let  us 
proceed  to  the  Amontillado." 

"  Be  it  so,"  I  said,  replacing  the  tool  beneath  the  cloak,  and 
again  offering  him  my  arm.  He  leaned  upon  it  heavily.  We 
continued  our  route  in  search  of  the  Amontillado.  We  passed 
through  a  range  of  low  arches,  descended,  passed  on,  and 
descending  again,  arrived  at  a  deep  crypt,  in  which  the  foulness 
of  the  air  caused  our  flambeaux  rather  to  glow  than  flame. 

At  the  most  remote  end  of  the  crypt  there  appeared  another 
less  spacious.  Its  walls  had  been  lined  with  human  remains,  piled 
to  the  vault  overhead,  in  the  fashion  of  the  great  catacombs  of 
Paris.  Three  sides  of  this  interior  crypt  were  still  ornamented  in 
this  manner.  From  the  fourth  the  bones  had  been  thrown  down, 
and  lay  promiscuously  upon  the  earth,  forming  at  one  point  a 
mound  of  some  size.  Within  the  wall  thus  exposed  by  the  dis- 
placing of  the  bones,  we  perceived  a  still  interior  recess,  in  depth 
about  four  feet,  in  width  three,  in  height  six  or  seven.  It  seemed 
to  have  been  constructed  for  no  especial  use  within  itself,  but 
formed  merely  the  interval  between  two  of  the  colossal  supports 
of  the  roof  of  the  catacombs,  and  was  backed  by  one  of  their 
circumscribing  walls  of  solid  granite. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Fortunato,  uplifting  his  dull  torch,  endeav- 
ored to  pry  into  the  depths  of  the  recess.  Its  termination  the 
feeble  light  did  not  enable  us  to  see. 

"  Proceed,"  I  said ;  "  herein  is  the  Amontillado.  As  for 
Luchesi  —  " 

"  He  is  an  ignoramus,"  interrupted  my  friend,  as  he  stepped 
unsteadily  forward,  while  I  followed  immediately  at  his  heels.     In 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  57 

an  instant  he  had  reached  the  extremity  of  the  niche,  and  finding 
his  progress  arrested  by  the  rock,  stood  stupidly  bewildered.  A 
moment  more  and  I  had  fettered  him  to  the  granite.  In  its  sur- 
face were  two  iron  staples,  distant  from  each  other  about  two  feet, 
horizontally.  From  one  of  these  depended  a  short  chain,  from 
the  other  a  padlock.  Throwing  the  links  about  his  waist,  it  was 
but  the  work  of  a  few  seconds  to  secure  it.  He  was  too  much 
astounded  to  resist.  Withdrawing  the  key,  I  stepped  back  from 
the  recess. 

"  Pass  your  hand,"  I  said,  "  over  the  wall ;  you  cannot  help 
feeling  the  nitre.  Indeed  it  is  very  damp.  Once  more  let  me 
m//^;r<?  you  to  return.  No?  Then  I  must  positively  leave  you. 
But  I  must  first  render  you  all  the  little  attentions  in  my  power." 

"  The  Amontillado  !  "  ejaculated  my  friend,  not  yet  recovered 
from  his  astonishment. 

"True,"  I  repHed;  "  the  Amontillado." 

As  I  said  these  words  I  busied  myself  among  the  pile  of  bones 
of  which  I  have  before  spoken.  Throwing  them  aside,  I  soon 
uncovered  a  quantity  of  building  stone  and  mortar.  With  these 
materials  and  with  the  aid  of  my  trowel,  I  began  vigorously  to 
wall  up  the  entrance  of  the  niche. 

I  had  scarcely  laid  the  first  tier  of  the  masonry  when  I  dis- 
covered that  the  intoxication  of  Fortunato  had  in  a  great  measure 
worn  off.  The  earliest  indication  I  had  of  this  was  a  low  moan- 
ing cry  from  the  depth  of  the  recess.  It  was  not  the  cry  of  a 
drunken  man.  There  was  then  a  long  and  obstinate  silence.  I 
laid  the  second  tier,  and  the  third,  and  the  fourth ;  and  then  I 
heard  the  furious  vibrations  of  the  chain.  The  noise  lasted  for 
several  minutes,  during  which,  that  I  might  hearken  to  it  with  the 
more  satisfaction,  I  ceased  my  labors  and  sat  down  upon  the 
bones.  When  at  last  the  clanking  subsided,  I  resumed  the  trowel, 
and  finished  without  interruption  the  fifth,  the  sixth,  and  the 
seventh  tier.  .  The  wall  was  now  nearly  upon  a  level  with  my 
breast.  I  again  paused,  and  holding  the  flambeaux  over  the  mason- 
work,  threw  a  few  feeble  rays  upon  the  figure  within. 

A  succession  of  loud  and  shrill  screams,  bursting  suddenly  from 
the  throat  of  the  chained  form,  seemed  to  thrust  me  violentl) 
back.     For  a  brief  moment  I  hesitated  —  I  trembled.     Unsheath- 


58  THE   CASK   OF  AMONTILLADO 

ing  my  rapier,  I  began  to  grope  with  it  about  the  recess  :  but  the 
thought  of  an  instant  reassured  me.  I  placed  my  hand  upon  the 
soHd  fabric  of  the  catacombs,  and  felt  satisfied.  I  reapproached 
the  wall.  I  rephed  to  the  yells  of  him  who  clamored.  I  re- 
echoed—  I  aided  —  I  surpassed  them  in  volume  and  in  strength. 
I  did  this,  and  the  clamorer  grew  still. 

It  was  now  midnight,  and  my  task  was  drawing  to  a  close.  I 
had  completed  the  eighth,  the  ninth,  and  the  tenth  tier.  I  had 
finished  a  portion  of  the  last  and  the  eleventh ;  there  remained 
but  a  single  stone  to  be  fitted  and  plastered  in.  I  struggled  with 
its  weight ;  I  placed  it  partially  in  its  destined  position.  But  now 
there  came  from  out  the  niche  a  low  laugh  that  erected  the  hairs 
upon  my  head.  It  was  succeeded  by  a  sad  voice,  which  I  had 
difficulty  in  recognizing  as  that  of  the  noble  Fortunato.  The 
voice  said  — 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  —  he!  he!  —  a  very  good  joke  indeed  —  an 
excellent  jest.  We  will  have  many  a  rich  laugh  about  it  at  the, 
palazzo  —  he  !  he  !  he  !  —  over  our  wine  —  he  !  he  !  he  !  " 

"  The  Amontillado  !  "  I  said. 

"  He  !  he  !  he  !  —  he  !  he  !  he  !  —  yes,  the  Amontillado.  But 
is  it  not  getting  late?  Will  not  they  be  awaiting  us  at  the  palazzo, 
the  Lady  Fortunato  and  the  rest  ?     Let  us  be  gone." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "let  us  be  gone." 

"  For  the  love  of  God,  Afontresor  f  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  for  the  love  of  God  !  " 

But  to  these  words  I  hearkened  in  vain  for  a  reply.  I  grew 
impatient.     I  called  aloud  — 

"  Fortunato  !  " 

No  answer.     I  called  again  — 

"  Fortunato  !  " 

No  answer  still.  I  thrust  a  torch  through  the  remaining  aper- 
ture and  let  it  fall  within.  There  came  forth  in  return  only  a 
jingling  of  the  bells.  My  heart  grew  sick  —  on  account  of  the 
dampness  of  the  catacombs.  I  hastened  to  make  an  end  of  my 
labor.  I  forced  the  last  stone  into  its  position  ;  I  plastered  it  up. 
Against  the  new  masonry  I  reerected  the  old  rampart  of  bones. 
For  the  half  of  a  century  no  mortal  has  disturbed  them.  In  pace 
requiescat ! 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE  59 


ETHAN    BRAND 

i 

A   CHAPTER    FROM    AN   ABORTIVE    ROMANCE 

NATHANIEL'  HAWTHORNE 

[First  published  in  185 1.  The  text  is  that  of  the  Snoiv  Image  and  Other 
Twice- Told  Tales,  1852.] 

Bartram  the  lime-burner,  a  rough,  heavy-looking  man,  be- 
grimed with  charcoal,  sat  watching  his  kiln,  at  nightfall,  while 
his  little  son  played  at  building  houses  with  the  scattered  frag- 
ments of  marble,  when,  on  the  hillside  below  them,  they  heard  a 
roar  of  laughter,  not  mirthful,  but  slow,  and  even  solemn,  like  a 
wind  shaking  the  boughs  of  the  forest. 

"  Father,  what  is  that  ?  "  asked  the  little  boy,  leaving  his  play, 
and  pressing  betwixt  his  father's  knees. 

"  O,  some  drunken  man,  I  suppose,"  answered  the  lime- 
burner;  "some  merry  fellow  from  the  bar-room  in  the  village, 
who  dared  not  laugh  loud  enough  within  doors,  lest  he  should 
blow  the  roof  of  the  house  off.  So  here  he  is,  shaking  his  jolly 
sides  at  the  foot  of  Graylock." 

"  But,  father,"  said  the  child,  more  sensitive  than  the  obtuse, 
middle-aged  clown,  "  he  does  not  laugh  like  a  man  that  is  glad. 
So  the  noise  frightens  me  !  " 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  child  !  "  cried  his  father,  gruffly.  "  You 
will  never  make  a  man,  I  do  believe  ;  there  is  too  much  of  your 
mother  in  you.  I  have  known  the  rustling  of  a  leaf  startle  you. 
Hark  !  Here  comes  the  merry  fellow  now.  You  shall  see  that 
there  is  no  harm  in  him." 

Bartram  and  his  little  son,  while  they  were  talking  thus,  sat 
watching  the  same  lime-kiln  that  had  been  the  scene  of  Ethan 
Brand's  solitary  and  meditative  life,  before  he  began  his  search 
for  the  Unpardonable  Sin.  Many  years,  as  we  have  seen,  had 
now  elapsed,  since  that  portentous  night  when  the  Idea  was  first 
developed.  The  kiln,  however,  on  the  mountain-side,  stood  un- 
impaired, and  was  in  nothing  changed  since  he  had  thrown  his 
dark  thoughts  into  the  intense  glow  of  its  furnace,  and  melted 


6o  ETHAN  BRAND 

them,  as  it  were,  into  the  one  thought  that  took  possession  of  his 
life.  It  was  a  rude,  round,  towerlike  structure,  about  twenty 
feet  high,  heavily  built  of  rough  stones,  and  with  a  hillock  of 
earth  heaped  about  the  larger  part  of  its  circumference  ;  so  that 
the  blocks  and  fragments  of  marble  might  be  drawn  by  cart- 
loads, and  thrown  in  at  the  top.  There  was  an  opening  at  the 
bottom  of  the  tower  like  an  oven-mouth,  but  large  enough  to  ad- 
mit a  man  in  a  stooping  posture,  and  provided  with  a  massive 
iron  door.  With  the  smoke  and  jets  of  fiame  issuing  from  the 
chinks  and  crevices  of  this  door,  which  seemed  to  give  admit- 
tance into  the  hillside,  it  resembled  nothing  so  much  as  the  pri- 
vate entrance  to  the  infernal  regions,  which  the  shepherds  of  the 
Delectable  Mountains  were  accustomed  to  show  to  pilgrims. 

There  are  many  such  lime-kilns  in  that  tract  of  country,  for 
the  purpose  of  burning  the  white  marble  which  composes  a  large 
part  of  the  substance  of  the  hills.  Some  of  them,  built  years 
ago,  and  long  deserted,  with  weeds  growing  in  the  vacant  round 
of  the  interior,  which  is  open  to  the  sky,  and  grass  and  wild- 
flowers  rooting  themselves  into  the  chinks  of  the  stones,  look 
already  like  relics  of  antiquity,  and  may  yet  be  overspread  with 
the  lichens  of  centuries  to  come.  Others,  where  the  lime-burner 
still  feeds  his  daily  and  night-long  fire,  afford  points  of  interest 
to  the  wanderer  among  the  hills,  who  seats  himself  on  a  log  of 
wood  or  a  fragment  of  marble,  to  hold  a  chat  with  the  solitary 
man.  It  is  a  lonesome,  and,  when  the  character  is  inclined  to 
thought,  may  be  an  intensely  thoughtful  occupation  ;  as  it  proved 
in  the  case  of  Ethan  Brand,  who  had  mused  to  such  strange  pur- 
pose, in  days  gone  by,  while  the  fire  in  this  very  kiln  was  burning. 

The  man  who  now  watched  the  fire  was  of  a  different  order, 
and  troubled  himself  with  no  thoughts  save  the  very  few  that 
were  requisite  to  his  business.  At  frequent  intervals,  he  flung 
back  the  clashing  weight  of  the  iron  door,  and,  turning  his  face 
from  the  insufferable  glare,  thrust  in  huge  logs  of  oak,  or  stirred 
the  immense  brands  with  a  long  pole.  Within  the  furnace  were 
seen  the  curlmg  and  riotous  flames,  and  the  burning  marble, 
almost  molten  with  the  intensity  of  heat ;  while  without,  the 
reflection  of  the  fire  quivered  on  the  dark  intricacy  of  the  sur- 
rounding forest,  and  showed   in   the  foreground  a  bright  and 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE  6 1 

ruddy  little  picture  of  the  hut,  the  spring  beside  its  door,  the 
athletic  and  coal-begrimed  figure  of  the  lime-burner,  and  the 
half-frightened  child,  shrinking  into  the  protection  of  his  father's 
shadow.  And  when  again  the  iron  door  was  closed,  then  reap- 
peared the  tender  light  of  the  half-full  moon,  which  vainly  strove 
to  trace  out  the  indistinct  shapes  of  the  neighboring  mountains  ; 
and,  in  the  upper  sky,  there  was  a  flitting  congregation  of  clouds, 
still  faintly  tinged  with  the  rosy  sunset,  though-  thus  far  down 
into  the  valley  the  sunshine  had  vanished  long  and  long  ago. 

The  little  boy  now  crept  still  closer  to  his  father,  as  footsteps 
were  heard  ascending  the  hillside,  and  a  human  form  thrust  aside 
the  bushes  that  clustered  beneath  the  trees. 

"  Halloo !  who  is  it  ?  "  cried  the  lime-burner,  vexed  at  his 
son's  timidity,  yet  half  infected  by  it.  "  Come  forward,  and 
show  yourself,  like  a  man,  or  I'll  fling  this  chunk  of  marble  at 
your  head !  " 

"  You  offer  me  a  rough  welcome,"  said  a  gloomy  voice,  as  the 
unknown  man  drew  nigh,  "  Yet  I  neither  claim  nor  desire  a 
kinder  one,  even  at  my  own  fireside." 

To  obtain  a  distincter  view,  Bartram  threw  open  the  iron 
door  of  the  kiln,  whence  immediately  issued  a  gush  of  fierce 
light,  that  smote  full  upon  the  stranger's  face  and  figure.  To  a 
careless  eye  there  appeared  nothing  very  remarkable  in  his  as- 
pect, which  was  that  of  a  man  in  a  coarse,  brown,  country-made 
suit  of  clothes,  tall  and  thin,  with  the  staff  and  heavy  shoes  of  a 
wayfarer.  As  he  advanced,  he  fixed  his  eyes  —  which  were 
very  bright  —  intently  upon  the  brightness  of  the  furnace,  as  if 
he  beheld,  or  expected  to  behold,  some  object  worthy  of  note 
within  it. 

"Good  evening,  stranger,"  said  the  lime-burner;  "whence 
come  you,  so  late  in  the  day  ?  " 

"  I  come  from  my  search,"  answered  the  wayfarer  ;  "  for,  at 
last,  it  is  finished." 

"  Drunk  !  —  or  crazy  !  "  muttered  Bartram  to  himself.  "  I 
shall  have  trouble  with  the  fellow.  The  sooner  I  drive  him 
away,  the  better." 

The  little  boy,  all  in  a  tremble,  whispered  to  his  father,  and 
begged  him  to  shut  the  door  of  the  kiln,  so  that  there  might  not 


62  ETHAN  BRAND 

be  SO  much  light;  for  that  there  was  something  in  the  man's 
face  which  he  was  afraid  to  look  at,  yet  could  not  look  away 
from.  And,  indeed,  even  the  lime-burner's  dull  and  torpid 
sense  began  to  be  impressed  by  an  indescribable  something  in 
that  thin,  rugged,  thoughtful  visage,  with  the  grizzled  hair  hang- 
ing wildly  about  it,  and  those  deeply-sunken  eyes,  which  gleamed 
like  fires  within  the  entrance  of.  a  mysterious  cavern.  But,  as 
he  closed  the  door,  the  stranger  turned  towards  him,  and  spoke 
in  a  quiet,  familiar  way,  that  made  Bartram  feel  as  if  he  were  a 
sane  and  sensible  man,  after  all. 

"  Your  task  draws  to  an  end,  I  see,"  said  he.  "  This  marble 
has  already  been  burning  three  days,  A  few  hours  more  will 
convert  the  stone  to  lime." 

"Why,  who  are  you?"  exclaimed  the  lime-burner.  "You 
seem  as  well  acquainted  with  my  business  as  I  am  myself." 

"And  well  I  may  be,"  said  the  stranger ;  "  for  I  followed  the 
same  craft  many  a  long  year,  and  here,  too,  on  this  very  spot. 
But  you  are  a  newcomer  in  these  parts.  Did  you  never  hear 
of  Ethan  Brand  ?  " 

"  The  man  that  went  in  search  of  the  Unpardonable  Sin  ?  " 
asked  Bartram,  with  a  laugh. 

"The  same,"  answered  the  stranger.  "  He  has  found  what 
he  sought,  and  therefore  he  comes  back  again." 

"  What !  then  you  are  Ethan  Brand  himself?  "  cried  the  lime- 
burner,  in  amazement.  "  I  am  a  newcomer  here,  as  you  say, 
and  they  call  it  eighteen  years  since  you  left  the  foot  of  Gray- 
lock.  But,  I  can  tell  you,  the  good  folks  still  talk  about  Ethan 
Brand,  in  the  village  yonder,  and  what  a  strange  errand  took  him 
away  from  his  lime-kiln.  Well,  and  so  you  have  found  the  Un- 
pardonable Sin  ?  " 

"  Even  so  !  "  said  the  stranger,  calmly. 

"  If  the  question  is  a  fair  one,"  proceeded  Bartram,  "where 
might  it  be  ?  " 

Ethan  Brand  laid  his  finger  on  his  own  heart. 

"  Here  !  "  replied  he. 

And  then,  without  mirth  in  his  countenance,  but  as  if  moved 
by  an  involuntary  recognition  of  the  infinite  absurdity  of  seek- 
ing throughout  the  world  for  what  was  the  closest  of  all  things 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE  63 

to  himself,  and  looking  into  every  heart,  save  his  own,  for  what 
was  hidden  in  no  other  breast,  he  broke  into  a  laugh  of  scorn.  It 
was  the  same  slow,  heavy  laugh  that  had  almost  appalled  the 
lime-burner  when  it  heralded  the  wayfarer's  approach. 

The  solitary  mountain-side  was  made  dismal  by  it.  Laughter, 
when  out  of  place,  mistimed,  or  bursting  forth  from  a  disordered 
state  of  feeling,  may  be  the  most  terrible  modulation  of  the 
human  voice.  The  laughter  of  one  asleep,  even  if  it  be  a  little 
child,  —  the  madman's  laugh  —  the  wild,  screaming  laugh  of  a 
born  idiot,  —  are  sounds  that  we  sometimes  tremble  to  hear,  and 
would  always  willingly  forget.  Poets  have  imagined  no  utter- 
ance of  fiends  or  hobgoblins  so  fearfully  appropriate  as  a  laugh. 
And  even  the  obtuse  lime-burner  felt  his  nerves  shaken,  as  this 
strange  man  looked  inward  at  his  own  heart,  and  burst  into 
laughter  that  rolled  away  into  the  night,  and  was  indistinctly 
reverberated  among  the  hills. 

"  Joe,"  said  he  to  his  little  son,  "  scamper  down  to  the  tavern 
in  the  village,  and  tell  the  jolly  fellows  there  that  Ethan  Brand 
has  come  back,  and  that  he  has  found  the  Unpardonable  Sin  !  " 

The  boy  darted  away  on  his  errand,  to  which  Ethan  Brand 
made  no  objection,  nor  seemed  hardly  to  notice  it.  He  sat  on  a 
log  of  wood  looking  steadfastly  at  the  iron  door  of  the  kiln. 
When  the  child  was  out  of  sight,  and  his  swift  and  light  foot- 
steps ceased  to  be  heard  treading  first  on  the  fallen  leaves  and 
then  on  the  rocky  mountain-path,  the  lime-burner  began  to  re- 
gret his  departure.  He  felt  that  the  little  fellow's  presence  had 
been  a  barrier  between  his  guest  and  himself,  and  that  he  must 
now  deal,  heart  to  heart,  with  a  man  who,  on  his  own  confes- 
sion, had  committed  the  one  only  crime  for  which  Heaven  could 
afford  no  mercy.  That  crime,  in  its  indistinct  blackness,  seemed 
to  overshadow  him.  The  lime-burner's  own  sins  rose  up  within 
him,  and  made  his  memory  riotous  with  a  throng  of  evil  shapes 
that  asserted  their  kindred  with  the  Master  Sin,  whatever  it 
might  be,  which  it  was  within  the  scope  of  man's  corrupted  na- 
ture to  conceive  and  cherish.  They  were  all  of  one  family  ;  they 
went  to  and  fro  between  his  breast  and  Ethan  Brand's,  and  car- 
ried dark  greetings  from  one  to  the  other. 

Then  Bartram  remembered  the  stories  which  had  grown  tra- 


64  ETHAN  BRAND 

ditionary  in  reference  to  this  strange  man,  who  had  come  upon 
him  like  a  shadow  of  the  night,  and  was  making  himself  at  home 
in  his  old  place,  after  so  long  absence  that  the  dead  people, 
dead  and  buried  for  years,  would  have  had  more  right  to  be  at 
home,  in  any  familiar  spot,  than  he.  Ethan  Brand,  it  was  said, 
had  conversed  with  Satan  himself  in  the  lurid  blaze  of  this  veiy 
kiln.  The  legend  had  been  matter  of  mirth  heretofore,  but 
looked  grisly  now.  According  to  this  tale,  before  Ethan  Brand 
departed  on  his  search,  he  had  been  accustomed  to  evoke  a 
fiend  from  the  hot  furnace  of  the  lime-kiln,  night  after  night,  in 
order  to  confer  with  him  about  the  Unpardonable  Sin  ;  the  man 
and  the  fiend  each  laboring  to  frame  the  image  of  some  mode  of 
guilt  which  could  neither  be  atoned  for  nor  forgiven.  And,  with 
the  first  gleam  of  light  upon  the  mountain-top,  the  fiend  crept 
in  at  the  iron  door,  there  to  abide  the  intensest  element  of  fire, 
until  again  summoned  forth  to  share  in  the  dreadful  task  of  ex- 
tending man's  possible  guilt  beyond  the  scope  of  Heaven's  else 
infinite  mercy. 

While  the  lime-burner  was  struggling  with  the  horror  of  these 
thoughts,  Ethan  Brand  rose  from  the  log,  and  flung  open  the 
door  of  the  kiln.  The  action  was  in  such  accordance  with  the 
idea  in  Bartram's  mind,  that  he  almost  expected  to  see  the  Evil 
One  issue  forth,  red-hot  from  the  raging  furnace. 

"  Hold !  hold  !  "  cried  he,  with  a  tremulous  attempt  to  laugh  ; 
for  he  was  ashamed  of  his  fears,  although  they  overmastered 
him.     "  Don't,  for  mercy's  sake,  bring  out  your  devil  now !  " 

"  Man  !  "  sternly  replied  Ethan  Brand,  "  what  need  have  I  of 
the  devil  ?  I  have  left  him  behind  me,  on  my  track.  It  is  with 
such  half-way  sinners  as  you  that  he  busies  himself.  Fear  not, 
because  I  open  the  door.  I  do  but  act  by  old  custom,  and  am 
going  to  trim  your  fire,  like  a  lime-burner,  as  I  was  once." 

He  stirred  the  vast  coals,  thrust  in  more  wood,  and  bent  for- 
ward to  gaze  into  the  hollow  prison-house  of  the  fire,  regardless 
of  the  fierce  glow  that  reddened  upon  his  face.  The  lime- 
burner  sat  watching  him,  and  half  suspected  his  strange  guest 
of  a  purpose,  if  not  to  evoke  a  fiend,  at  least  to  plunge  bodily 
into  the  flames,  and  thus  vanish  from  the  sight  of  man.  Ethan 
Brand,  however,  drew  quietly  back,  and  closed  the  door  of  the  kiln. 


ISrATHANlEL  HAWTHORME  65 

•'  I  have  looked,"  said  he,  "  into  many  a  human  heart  that 
was  seven  times  hotter  with  sinful  passions  than  yonder  furnace 
is  with  fire.  But  I  found  not  there  what  I  sought.  No,  not  the 
Unpardonable  Sin  !  " 

*'  What  is  the  Unpardonable  Sin  ?  "  asked  the  lime-burner ; 
and  then  he  shrank  further  from  his  companion,  trembling  lest 
his  question  should  be  answered. 

"  It  is  a  sin  that  grew  within  my  own  breast,"  replied  Ethan 
Brand,  standing  erect,  with  a  pride  that  distinguishes  all  enthu- 
siasts of  his  stamp.  "  A  sin  that  grew  nowhere  else  !  The  sin 
of  an  intellect  that  triumphed  over  the  sense  of  brotherhood 
with  man  and  reverence  for  God,  and  sacrificed  everything  to 
its  own  mighty  claims  !  The  only  sin  that  deserves  a  recom- 
pense of  immortal  agony !  Freely,  were  it  to  do  again,  would  I 
incur  the  guilt.     Unshrinkingly  I  accept  the  retribution !  " 

"  The  man's  head  is  turned,"  muttered  the  lime-burner  to  him- 
self. "  He  may  be  a  sinner,  like  the  rest  of  us,  —  nothing  more 
likely,  —  but,  I'll  be  sworn,  he  is  a  madman  too." 

Nevertheless  he  felt"  uncomfortable  at  his  situation,  alone  with 
Ethan  Brand  on  the  wild  mountain-side,  and  was  right  glad  to 
hear  the  rough  murmur  of  tongues,  and  the  footsteps  of  what 
seemed  a  pretty  numerous  party,  stumbling  over  the  stones  and 
rustling  through  the  underbrush.  Soon  appeared  the  whole  lazy 
regiment  that  was  wont  to  infest  the  village  tavern,  comprehend- 
ing three  or  four  individuals  who  had  drunk  flip  beside  the  bar- 
room fire  through  all  the  winters,  and  smoked  their  pipes  beneath 
the  stoop  through  all  the  summers,  since  Ethan  Brand's  depar- 
ture. Laughing  boisterously,  and  mingling  all  their  voices  to- 
gether in  unceremonious  talk,  they  now  burst  into  the  moonshine 
and  narrow  streaks  of  firelight  that  illuminated  the  open  space 
before  the  lime-kiln.  Bartram  set  the  door  ajar  again,  flooding 
the  spot  with  light,  that  the  whole  company  might  get  a  fair  view 
of  Ethan  Brand,  and  he  of  them. 

There,  among  other  old  acquaintances,  was  a  once  ubiquitous 
man,  now  almost  extinct,  but  whom  we  were  formerly  sure  to 
encounter  at  the  hotel  of  every  thriving  village  throughout  the 
country.  It  was  the  stage-agent.  The  present  specimen  of  the 
genus  was  a  wilted  and  smoke-dried  man,  wrinkled  and    red- 


66  -ETHAN  BRAND 

nosed,  in  a  smartly-cut,  brown,  bob-tailed  coat,  with  brass  buttons, 
who,  for  a  length  of  time  unknown,  had  kept  his  desk  and  corner 
in  the  bar-room,  and  was  still  puffing  what  seemed  to  be  the  same 
cigar  that  he  had  lighted  twenty  years  before.  He  had  great 
fame  as  a  dry  joker,  though,  perhaps,  less  on  account  of  any 
intrinsic  humor  than  from  a  certain  flavor  of  brandy-toddy  and 
tobacco-smoke,  which  impregnated  all  his  ideas  and  expressions, 
as  well  as  his  person.  Another  well-remembered  though  strangely- 
altered  face  was  that  of  Lawyer  Giles,  as  people  still  called  him 
in  courtesy  ;  an  elderly  ragamuffin,  in  his  soiled  shirt-sleeves  and 
tow-cloth  trousers.  This  poor  fellow  had  been  an  attorney,  in 
what  he  called  his  better  days,  a  sharp  practitioner,  and  in  great 
vogue  among  the  village  litigants  ;  but  flip,  and  shng,  and  toddy, 
and  cocktails,  imbibed  at  all  hours,  morning,  noon,  and  night, 
had  caused  him  to  shde  from  intellectual  to  various  kinds  and 
degrees  of  bodily  labor,  till  at  last,  to  adopt  his  own  phrase,  he 
slid  into  a  soap-vat.  In  other  words,  Giles  was  now  a  soap- 
boiler, in  a  small  way.  He  had  come  to  be  but  the  fragment  of 
a  human  being,  a  part  of  one  foot  having  been  chopped  off  by 
an  axe,  and  an  entire  hand  torn  away  by  the  devilish  grip  of  a 
steam-engine.  Yet  though  the  corporeal  hand  was  gone,  a  spir- 
itual member  remained ;  for,  stretching  forth  the  stump,  Giles 
steadfastly  averred  that  he  felt  an  invisible  thumb  and  fingers 
with  as  vivid  a  sensation  as  before  the  real  ones  were  amputated. 
A  maimed  and  miserable  wretch  he  was  ;  but  one,  nevertheless, 
whom  the  world  could  not  trample  on,  and  had  no  right  to  scorn, 
either  in  this  or  any  previous  stage  of  his  misfortunes,  since  he 
had  still  kept  up  the  courage  and  spirit  of  a  man,  asked  nothing 
in  charity,  and  with  his  one  hand  —  and  that  the  left  one  — 
fought  a  stern  battle  against  want  and  hostile  circumstances. 

Among  the  throng,  too,  came  another  personage,  who,  with 
certain  points  of  similarity  to  Lawyer  Giles,  had  many  more  of 
difference.  It  was  the  village  doctor  ;  a  man  of  some  fifty  years, 
whom,  at  an  earlier  period  of  his  life,  we  introduced  as  paying  a 
professional  visit  to  Ethan  Brand  during  the  latter's  supposed 
insanity.  He  was  now  a  purple-visaged,  rude,  and  brutal,  yet 
half-gentlemanly  figure,  with  something  wild,  ruined,  and  des- 
perate in  his  talk,  and  in  all  the  details  of  his  gesture  and  man- 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE  6/ 

ners.  Brandy  possessed  this  man  like  an  evil  spirit,  and  made 
him  as  surly  and  savage  as  a  wild  beast,  and  as  miserable  as  a 
lost  soul ;  but  there  was  supposed  to  be  in  him  such  wonderful 
skill,  such  native  gifts  of  healing,  beyond  any  which  medical 
science  could  impart,  that  society  caught  hold  of  him,  and  would 
not  let  him  sink  out  of  its  reach.  So,  swaying  to  and  fro  upon 
his  horse,  and  grumbling  thick  accents  at  the  bedside,  he  visited 
all  the  sick  chambers  for  miles  about  among  the  mountain  towns, 
and  sometimes  raised  a  dying  man,  as  it  were,  by  miracle,  or 
quite  as  often,  no  doubt,  sent  his  patient  to  a  grave  that  was  dug 
many  a  year  too  soon.  The  doctor  had  an  everlasting  pipe 
in  his  mouth,  and  as  somebody  said,  in  allusion  to  his  habit  of 
swearing,  it  was  always  alight  with  hell-fire. 

These  three  worthies  pressed  forward,  and  greeted  Ethan 
Brand  each  after  his  own  fashion,  earnestly  inviting  him  to  par- 
take of  the  contents  of  a  certain  black  bottle,  in  which,  as  they 
averred,  he  would  find  something  far  better  worth  seeking  for 
than  the  Unpardonable  Sin.  No  mind,  which  has  wrought  itself 
by  intense  and  solitary  meditation  into  a  high  state  of  enthusiasm, 
can  endure  the  kind  of  contact  with  low  and  vulgar  modes  of 
thought  and  feeling  to  which  Ethan  Brand  was  now  subjected. 
It  made  him  doubt  —  and,  strange  to  say,  it  was  a  painful  doubt 
—  whether  he  had  indeed  found  the  Unpardonable  Sin,  and 
found  it  within  hinlself .  The  whole  question  on  which  he  had 
exhausted  life,  and  more  than  life,  looked  like  a  delusion. 

"Leave  me,"  he  said  bitterly,  "ye  brute  beasts,  that  have 
made  yourselves  so,  shrivelling  up  your  souls  with  fiery  liquors ! 
I  have  done  with  you.  Years  and  years  ago,  I  groped  into  your 
hearts,  and  found  nothing  there  for  my  purpose.    Get  ye  gone  !  " 

"Why,  you  uncivil  scoundrel,"  cried  the  fierce  doctor,  "is 
that  the  way  you  respond  to  the  kindness  of  your  best  friends  ? 
Then  let  me  tell  you  the  truth.  You  have  no  more  found  the 
Unpardonable  Sin  than  yonder  boy  Joe  has.  You  are  but  a 
crazy  fellow,  —  I  told  you  so  twenty  years  ago,  —  neither  better 
nor  worse  than  a  crazy  fellow,  and  the  fit  companion  of  old 
Humphrey,  here  !  " 

He  pointed  to  an  old  man,  shabbily  dressed,  with  long  white 
hair,  thin  visage,  and  unsteady  eyep.     For  some  years  past  this 


68  ETHAN  BRAND 

aged  person  had  been  wandering  about  among  the  hills,  inquir- 
ing of  all  travellers  whom  he  met  for  his  daughter.  The  girl,  it 
seemed,  had  gone  off  with  a  company  of  circus-performers  ;  and 
occasionally  tidings  of  her  came  to  the  village,  and  fine  stories 
were  told  of  her  glittering  appearance  as  she  rode  on  horseback 
in  the  ring,  or  performed  marvellous  feats  on  the  tight-rope. 

The  white-haired  father  now  approached  Ethan  Brand,  and 
gazed  unsteadily  into  his  face. 

"They  tell  me  you  have  been  all  over  the  earth,"  said  he, 
wringing  his  hands  with  earnestness.  "  You  must  have  seen 
my  daughter,  for  she  makes  a  grand  figure  in  the  world,  and  every- 
body goes  to  see  her.  Did  she  send  any  word  to  her  old  father, 
or  say  when  she  was  coming  back  ?  " 

Ethan  Brand's  eye  quailed  beneath  the  old  man's.  That 
daughter,  from  whom  he  so  earnestly  desired  a  word  of  greeting, 
was  the  Esther  of  our  tale,  the  very  girl  whom,  with  such  cold 
and  remorseless  purpose,  Ethan  Brand  had  made  the  subject  of 
a  psychological  experiment,  and  wasted,  absorbed,  and  perhaps 
annihilated  her  soul,  in  the  process. 

"  Yes,"  murmured  he,  turning  away  from  the  hoary  wanderer  ; 
"  it  is  no  delusion.     There  is  an  Unpardonable  Sin  !  " 

While  these  things  were  passing,  a  merry  scene  was  going 
forward  in  the  area  of  cheerful  light,  beside  the  spring  and 
before  the  door  of  the  hut.  A  number  of  the  youth  of  the 
village,  young  men  and  girls,  had  hurrried  up  the  hillside, 
impelled  by  curiosity  to  see  Ethan  Brand,  the  hero  of  so  many 
a  legend  familiar  to  their  childhood.  Finding  nothing,  however, 
very  remarkable  in  his  aspect, — nothing  but  a  sun-burnt  way- 
farer, in  plain  garb  and  dusty  shoes,  who  sat  looking  into  the 
fire,  as  if  he  fancied  pictures  among  the  coals,  —  these  young 
people  speedily  grew  tired  of  observing  him.  As  it  happened, 
there  was  other  amusement  at  hand.  An  old  German  Jew, 
travelling  with  a  diorama  on  his  back,  was  passing  down  the 
mountain-road  towards  the  village  just  as  the  party  turned  aside 
from  it,  and,  in  hopes  of  eking  out  the  profits  of  the  day,  the 
showman  had  kept  them  company  to  the  lime-kiln. 

"  Come,  old  Dutchman,"  cried  one  of  the  young  men,  "  let  us 
see  your  pictures,  if  you  can  swear  they  are  worth  looking  at !  " 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE  6g 

"0,  yes,  Captain,"  answered  the  Jew,  —  whether  as  a  matter 
of  courtesy  or  craft,  he  styled  everybody  Captain,  —  "I  shall 
show  you,  indeed,  some  very  superb  pictures  !  " 

So,  placing  his  box  in  a  proper  position,  he  invited  the  young 
men  and  girls  to  look  through  the  glass  orifices  of  the  machine, 
and  proceeded  to  exhibit  a  series  of  the  most  outrageous  scratch- 
ings  and  daubings,  as  specimens  of  the  fine  arts,  that  ever  an 
itinerant  showman  had  the  face  to  impose  upon  his  circle  of 
spectators.  The  pictures  were  worn  out,  moreover,  tattered, 
full  of  cracks  and  wrinkles,  dingy  with  tobacco-smoke,  and 
otherwise  in  a  most  pitiable  condition.  Some  purported  to  be 
cities,  public  edifices,  and  ruined  castles  in  Europe  ;  others  rep- 
resented Napoleon's  battles  and  Nelson's  sea-fights;  and  in  the 
midst  of  these  would  be  seen  a  gigantic,  brown,  hairy  hand, — 
which  might  have  been  mistaken  for  the  Hand  of  Destiny, 
though,  in  truth,  it  was  only  the  showman's,  —  pointing  its  fore- 
finger to  various  scenes  of  the  conflict,  while  its  owner  gave 
historical  illustrations.  When,  with  much  merriment  at  its 
abominable  deficiency  of  merit,  the  exhibition  was  concluded, 
the  German  bade  little  Joe  put  his  head  into  the  box.  Viewed 
through  the  magnifying  glasses,  the  boy's  round,  rosy  visage 
assumed  the  strangest  imaginable  aspect  of  an  immense  Titanic 
child,  the  mouth  grinning  broadly,  and  the  eyes  and  every  other 
feature  overflowing  with  fun  at  the  joke.  Suddenly,  however, 
that  merry  face  turned  pale,  and  its  expression  changed  to  hor- 
ror, for  this  easily  impressed  and  excitable  child  had  become 
sensible  that  the  eye  of  Ethan  Brand  was  fixed  upon  him  through 
the  glass. 

"  You  make  the  little  man  to  be  afraid.  Captain,"  said  the 
German  Jew,  turning  up  the  dark  and  strong  outline  of  his  vis- 
age, from  his  stooping  posture.  "  But  look  again,  and,  by 
chance,  I  shall  cause  yoii  to  see  somewhat  that  is  very  fine, 
upon  my  word  !  " 

Ethan  Brand  gazed  into  the  box  for  an  instant,  and  then 
starting  back,  looked  fixedly  at  the  German.  What  had  he 
seen?  Nothing,  apparently;  for  a  curious  youth,  who  had 
peeped  in  almost  at  the  same  moment,  beheld  only  a  vacant 
space  of  canvas. 


70  ETHAN  BRAND 

"  I  remember  you  now,"  muttered  Ethan  Brand  to  the  show- 
man. 

"  Ah,  Captain,"  whispered  the  Jew  of  Nuremburg,  with  a  dark 
smile,  "I  iind  it  to  be  a  heavy  matter  in  my  show-box, ^ this 
Unpardonable  Sin!  By  my  faith,  Captain,  it  has  wearied  my 
shoulders  this  long  day,  to  carry  it  over  the  mountain." 

"  Peace,"  answered  Ethan  Brand,  sternly,  "or  get  thee  into 
the  furnace  yonder  !  " 

The  Jew's  exhibition  had  scarcely  concluded,  when  a  great, 
elderly  dog,  —  who  seemed  to  be  his  own  master,  as  no  person 
in  the  company  laid  claim  to  him,  —  saw  fit  to  render  himself 
the  object  of  public  notice.  Hitherto,  he  had  shown  himself 
a  very  quiet,  well-disposed  old  dog,  going  round  from  one  to 
another,  and,  by  way  of  being  sociable,  offering  his  rough  head 
to  be  patted  by  any  kindly  hand  that  would  take  so  much  trou- 
ble. But  now,  all  of  a  sudden,  this  grave  and  venerable  quad- 
ruped, of  his  own  mere  motion,  and  without  the  slightest 
suggestion  from  anybody  else,  began  to  run  round  after  his 
tail,  which,  to  heighten  the  absurdity  of  the  proceeding,  was  a 
great  deal  shorter  than  it  should  have  been.  Never  was  seen 
such  headlong  eagerness  in  pursuit  of  an  object  that  could  not 
possibly  be  attained ;  never  was  heard  such  a  tremendous  out- 
break of  growling,  snarling,  barking,  and  snapping,  —  as  if  one 
end  of  the  ridiculous  brute's  body  were  at  deadly  and  most  un- 
forgivable enmity  with  the  other.  Faster  and  faster,  round 
about  went  the  cur  ;  and  faster  and  still  faster  fled  the  unap- 
proachable brevity  of  his  tail ;  and  louder  and  fiercer  grew  his 
yells  of  rage  and  animosity ;  until,  utterly  exhausted,  and  as  far 
from  the  goal  as  ever,  the  foolish  old  dog  ceased  his  performance 
as  suddenly  as  he  had  begun  it.  The  next  moment  he  was  as 
mild,  quiet,  sensible,  and  respectable  in  his  deportment,  as  when 
he  first  scraped  acquaintance  with  the  company. 

As  may  be  supposed,  the  exhibition  was  greeted  with  universal 

laughter,  clapping  of  hands,  and  shouts  of  encore,  to  which  the 

canine  performer  responded  by  wagging  all  that  there  was  to 

wag  of  his  tail,  but  appeared  totally  unable  to  repeat  his  very 

.  successful  effort  to  amuse  the  spectators. 

Meanwhile,  Ethan  Brand  had  resumed  his  seat  upon  the  log, 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE  7 1 

and  moved,  it  might  be,  by  a  perception  of  some  remote  analogy 
between  his  own  case  and  that  of  this  self-pursuing  cur,  he  broke 
into  the  awful  laugh,  which,  more  than  any  other  token,  expressed 
the  condition  of  his  inward  being.  From  that  moment,  the  mer- 
riment of  the  party  was  at  an  end  ;  they  stood  aghast,  dreading 
lest  the  inauspicious  sound  should  be  reverberated  around  the 
horizon,  and  that  mountain  would  thunder  it  to  mountain,  and 
so  the  horror  be  prolonged  upon  their  ears.  Then,  whispering 
one  to  another  that  it  was  late,  —  that  the  moon  was  almost 
down,  —  that  the  August  night  was  growing  chill,  —  they  hurried 
homewards,  leaving  the  lime-burner  and  little  Joe  to  deal  as 
they  might  with  their  unwelcome  guest.  Save  for  these  three 
human  beings,  the  open  space  on  the  hillside  was  a  solitude, 
set  in  a  vast  gloom  of  forest.  Beyond  that  darksome  verge,  the 
firelight  glimmered  on  the  stately  trunks  and  almost  black  foli- 
age of  pines,  intermixed  with  the  lighter  verdure  of  sapling  oaks, 
maples,  and  poplars,  while  here  and  there  lay  the  gigantic  corpses 
of  dead  trees,  decaying  on  the  leaf-strewn  soil.  And  it  seemed 
to  little  Joe  —  a  timorous  and  imaginative  child  —  that  the  silent 
forest  was  holding  its  breath,  until  some  fearful  thing  should 
happen. 

Ethan  Brand  thrust  more  wood  into  the  fire,  and  closed  the 
door  of  the  kiln  ;  then  looking  over  his  shoulder  at  the  lime- 
burner  and  his  son,  he  bade,  rather  than  advised,  them  to  rest. 

"  For  myself,  I  cannot  sleep,"  said  he.  "  I  have  matters  that 
it  concerns  me  to  meditate  upon.  I  will  watch  the  fire,  as  I 
used  to  do  in  the  old  time." 

"  And  call  the  devil  out  of  the  furnace  to  keep  you  company, 
I  suppose,"  muttered  Bartram,  who  had  been  making  intimate 
acquaintance  with  the  black  bottle  above-mentioned.  "  But 
watch,  if  you  like,  and  call  as  many  devils  as  you  like  !  For 
my  part,  I  shall  be  all  the  better  for  a  snooze.     Come,  Joe  !  " 

As  the  boy  followed  his  father  into  the  hut,  he  looked  back 
at  the  wayfarer,  and  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes,  for  his  tender 
spirit  had  an  intuition  of  the  bleak  and  terrible  loneliness  in 
which  this  man  had  enveloped  himself. 

When  they  had  gone,  Ethan  Brand  sat  listening  to  the  crack- 
ling of  the  kindled  wood,  and  looking  at  the  little  spirts  of  fire 


72  ETHAN  BRAND 

that  issued  through  the  chinks  of  the  door.  These  trifles,  how- 
ever, once  so  familiar,  had  but  the  slightest  hold  of  his  atten- 
tion, while  deep  within  his  mind  he  was  reviewing  the  gradual 
but  marvellous  change  that  had  been  wrought  upon  him  by  the 
search  to  which  he  had  devoted  himself.  He  remembered  how 
the  night  dew  had  fallen  upon  him,  — how  the  dark  forest  had 
whispered  to  him, — how  the  stars  had  gleamed  upon  him  —  a 
simple  and  loving  man,  watching  his  fire  in  the  years  gone  by, 
and  ever  musing  as  it  burned.  He  remembered  with  what 
tenderness,  with  what  love  and  sympathy  for  mankind,  and  what 
pity  for  human  guilt  and  woe,  he  had  first  begun  to  contemplate 
those  ideas  which  afterwards  became  the  inspiration  of  his 
life ;  with  what  reverence  he  had  then  looked  into  the  heart  of 
man,  viewing  it  as  a  temple  originally  divine,  and,  however 
desecrated,  still  to  be  held  sacred  by  a  brother  ;  with  what 
awful  fear  he  had  deprecated  the  success  of  his  pursuit,  and 
prayed  that  the  Unpardonable  Sin  might  never  be  revealed  to 
him.  Then  ensued  that  vast  intellectual  development,  which, 
in  its  progress,  disturbed  the  counterpoise  between  his  mind 
and  heart.  The  Idea  that  possessed  his  life  had  operated  as  a 
means  of  education  ;  it  had  gone  on  cultivating  his  powers  to 
the  highest  point  of  which  they  were  susceptible  ;  it  had  raised 
him  from  the  level  of  an  unlettered  laborer  to  stand  on  a  star- 
lit eminence,  whither  the  philosophers  of  the  earth,  laden  with 
the  lore  of  universities,  might  vainly  strive  to  clamber  after  him. 
So  mvTch  for  the  intellect !  But  where  was  the  heart  ?  That, 
indeed,  had  withered  —  had  contracted — ^had  hardened  —  had 
perished  !  It  had  ceased  to  partake  of  the  universal  throb.  He 
had  lost  his  hold  of  the  magnetic  chain  of  humanity.  He  was 
no  longer  a  brother-man,  opening  the  chambers  or  the  dungeons 
of  our  common  nature  by  the  key  of  holy  sympathy,  which  gave 
him  a  right  to  share  in  all  its  secrets ;  he  was  now  a  cold 
observer,  looking  on  mankind  as  the  subject  of  his  experiment, 
and,  at  length,  converting  man  and  woman  to  be  his  puppets, 
and  pulling  the  Mares  that  moved  them  to  such  degrees  of  crime 
as  were  demanded  for  his  study. 

Thus  Ethan  Brand  became  a  fiend.     He  began  to  be  so  from 
the  moment  that  his  moral  nature  had  ceased  to  keep  the  pace 


NA  THANIEL .  HA  WTHORNE  73 

of  improvement  with  his  intellect.  And  now,  as  his  highest 
effort  and  inevitable  development,  —  as  the  bright  and  gorgeous 
flower,  and  rich,  delicious  fruit  of  his  life's  labor,  —  he  had  pro- 
duced the  Unpardonable  Sin ! 

"  What  more  have  I  to  seek  ?  What  more  to  achieve  ?  "  said 
Ethan  Brand  to  himself.     "  My  task  is  done,  and  well  done  !  " 

Starting  from  the  log  with  a  certain  alacrity  in  his  gait,  and 
ascending  the  hillock  of  earth  that  was  raised  against  the  stone 
circumference  of  the  lime-kiln,  he  thus  reached  the  top  of  the 
structure.  It  was  a  space  of  perhaps  ten  feet  across,  from  edge 
to  edge,  presenting  a  view  of  the  upper  surface  of  the  immense 
mass  of  broken  marble  with  which  the  kiln  was  heaped.  All 
these  innumerable  blocks  and  fragments  of  marble  were  red-hot 
and  vividly  on  fire,  sending  up  great  spouts  of  blue  flame,  which 
quivered  aloft  and  danced  madly,  as  within  a  magic  circle,  and 
sank  and  rose  again,  with  continual  and  multitudinous  activity. 
As  the  lonely  man  bent  forward  over  this  terrible  body  of  fire, 
the  blasting  heat  smote  up  against  his  person  with  a  breath  that, 
it  might  be  supposed,  would  have  scorched  and  shrivelled  him 
up  in  a  moment. 

Ethan  Brand  stood  erect,  and  raised  his  arms  on  high.  The 
blue  flames  played  upon  his  face,  and  imparted  the  wild  and 
ghastly  light  which  alone  could  have  suited  its  expression  ;  it 
was  that  of  a  fiend  on  the  verge  of  plunging  into  his  gulf  of 
intensest  torment. 

"  O  Mother  Earth,"  cried  he,  "  who  art  no  more  my  Mother, 
and  into  whose  bosom  this  frame  shall  never  be  resolved !  O 
mankind,  whose  brotherhood  I  have  cast  off,  and  trampled  thy 
great  heart  beneath  my  feet !  O  stars  of  heaven,  that  shone  on 
me  of  old,  as  if  to  light  me  onward  and  upward  !  —  farewell  all, 
and  forever !  Come,  deadly  element  of  Fire,  —  henceforth  my 
familiar  friend  !     Embrace  me,  as  I  do  thee  !  " 

That  night  the  sound  of  a  fearful  peal  of  laughter  rolled  heav- 
ily through  the  sleep  of  the  lime-burner  and  his  little  son  ;  dim 
shapes  of  horror  and  anguish  haunted  their  dreams,  and  seemed 
still  present  in  the  rude  hovel,  when  they  opened  their  eyes  to 
the  daylight. 

"  Up,  boy,  up !  "  cried  the  lime-burner,  staring  about  him. 


74  ETHAN  BRAND 

"  Thank  Heaven,  the  night  is  gone,  at  last ;  and  rather  than 
pass  such  another,  I  would  watch  my  lime-kiln,  wide  awake,  for 
a  twelvemonth.  This  Ethan  Brand,  with  his  humbug  of  an 
Unpardonable  Sin,  has  done  me  no  such  mighty  favor,  in  taking 
my  place  !  " 

He  issued  from  the  hut,  followed  by  little  Joe,  who  kept  fast 
hold  of  his  father's  hand.  The  early  sunshine  was  already  pour- 
ing its  gold  upon  the  mountain-tops  ;  and  though  the  valleys 
were  still  in  shadow,  they  smiled  cheerfully  in  the  promise  of  the 
bright  day  that  was  hastening  onward.  The  village,  completely 
shut  in  by  hills,  which  swelled  away  gently  about  it,  looked  as  if 
it  had  rested  peacefully  in  the  hollow  of  the  great  hand  of  Provi- 
dence. Every  dwelling  was  distinctly  visible  ;  the  little  spires 
of  the  two  churches  pointed  upwards,  and  caught  a  fore-glim- 
mering of  brightness  from  the  sun-gilt  skies  upon  their  gilded 
weather-cocks.  The  tavern  was  astir,  and  the  figure  of  the  old, 
smoke-dried  stage-agent,  cigar  in  mouth,  was  seen  beneath  the 
stoop.  Old  Graylock  was  glorified  with  a  golden  cloud  upon  his 
head.  Scattered  likewise  over  the  breasts  of  the  surrounding 
mountains,  there  were  heaps  of  hoary  mist,  in  fantastic  shapes, 
some  of  them  far  down  into  the  valley,  others  high  up  towards 
the  summits,  and  still  others,  of  the  same  family  of  mist  or  cloud, 
hovering  in  the  gold  radiance  of  the  upper  atmosphere.  Step- 
ping from  one  to  another  of  the  clouds  that  rested  on  the  hills, 
and  thence  to  the  loftier  brotherhood  that  sailed  in  air,  it  seemed 
almost  as  if  a  mortal  man  might  thus  ascend  into  the  heavenly 
regions.  Earth  was  so  mingled  with  sky  that  it  was  a  day-dream 
to  look  at  it. 

To  supply  that  charm  of  the  familiar  and  homely,  which  Na- 
ture so  readily  adopts  into  a  scene  like  this,  the  stage-coach  was 
rattling  down  the  mountain-road,  and  the  driver  sounded  his 
horn,  while  echo  caught  up  the  notes,  and  intertwined  them  into 
a  rich  and  varied  and  elaborate  harmony,  of  which  the  original 
performer  could  lay  claim  to  little  share.  The  great  hills  played 
a  concert  among  themselves,  each  contributing  a  strain  of  airy 
sweetness. 

Little  Joe's  face  brightened  at  once. 

*'  Dear  father,"  cried  he,  skipping  cheerily  to  and  fro,  "  that 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE  75 

Strange  man  is  gone,  and  the  sky  and  the  mountains  all  seem 
glad  of  it !  " 

"  Yes,"  growled  the  lime-burner,  with  an  oath,  "  but  he  has 
let  the  fire  go  down,  and  no  thanks  to  him  if  five  hundred  bush- 
els of  lime  are  not  spoiled.  If  I  catch  the  fellow  hereabouts 
again,  I  shall  feel  like  tossing  him  into  the  furnace !  " 

With  his  long  pole  in  his  hand,  he  ascended  to  the  top  of  the 
kiln.     After  a  moment's  pause,  he  called  to  his  son. 

"  Come  up  here,  Joe  !  "  said  he. 

So  little  Joe  ran  up  the  hillock,  and  stood  by  his  father's  side. 
The  marble  was  all  burnt  into  perfect,  snow-white  lime.  But  on 
its  surface,  in  the  midst  of  the  circle,  —  snow-white  too,  and 
thoroughly  converted  into  lime,  —  lay  a  human  skeleton,  in  the 
attitude  of  a  person  who,  after  long  toil,  lies  down  to  long  re- 
pose. Within  the  ribs  —  strange  to  say  —  was  the  shape  of  a 
human  heart. 

"  Was  the  fellow's  heart  made  of  marble  ?  "  cried  Bartram,  in 
some  perplexity  at  this  phenomenon.  "  At  any  rate,  it  is  burnt 
into  what'  looks  like  special  good  lime  ;  and  taking  all  the  bones 
together,  my  kiln  is  half  a  bushel  the  richer  for  him." 

So  saying,  the  rude  lime-burner  lifted  his  pole,  and,  letting  it 
fall  upon  the  skeleton,  the  relics  of  Ethan  Brand  were  crumbled 
into  fragments. 

MARKHEIM 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

[First  published  in  1S85.  The  text  is  that  of  The  Merry  Men  and  Other 
Tales  and  Fables,  1887.] 

"  Yes,"  said  the  dealer,  "  our  windfalls  are  of  various  kinds. 
Some  customers  are  ignorant,  and  then  I  touch  a  dividend  on  my 
superior  knowledge.  Some  are  dishonest,"  and  here  he  held  up 
the  candle,  so  that  the  light  fell  strongly  on  his  visitor,  "  and  in 
that  case,"  he  continued,  "  I  profit  by  my  virtue." 

Markheim  had  but  just  entered  from  the  daylight  streets,  and 
his  eyes  had  not  yet  grown  familiar  with  the  mingled  shine  and 
darkness  in  the  shop.     At  these  pointed  words,  and  before  the 


76  MARKHEIM 

near  presence  of  the  flame,  he  blinked  painfully  and  looked 
aside. 

The  dealer  chuckled.  *'You  come  to  me  on  Christmas  Day," 
he  resumed,  "  when  you  know  that  I  am  alone  in  my  house,  put 
up  my  shutters,  and  make  a  point  of  refusing  business.  Well,  you 
will  have  to  pay  for  that ;  you  will  have  to  pay  for  my  loss  of  time, 
when  I  should  be  balancing  my  books  ;  you  will  have  to  pay,  be- 
sides, for  a  kind  of  manner  that  I  remark  in  you  to-day  very 
strongly.  I  am  the  essence  of  discretion,  and  ask  no  awkward 
questions ;  but  when  a  customer  cannot  look  me  in  the  eye,  he 
has  to  pay  for  it."  The  dealer  once  more  chuckled  ;  and  then, 
changing  to  his  usual  business  voice,  though  still  with  a  note  of 
irony,  "You  can  give,  as  usual,  a  clear  account  of  how  you  came 
into  the  possession  of  the  object?"  he  continued.  "Still  your 
uncle's  cabinet  ?     A  remarkable  collector,  sir  !  " 

And  the  little  pale,  round-shouldered  dealer  stood  almost  on 
tip-toe,  looking  over  the  top  of  his  gold  spectacles,  and  nodding 
his  head  with  every  mark  of  disbelief.  Markheim  returned  his 
gaze  with  one  of  infinite  pity,  and  a  touch  of  horror. 

"  This  time,"  said  he,  "  you  are  in  error.  I  have  not  come  to 
sell,  but  to  buy.  I  have  no  curios  to  dispose  of;  my  uncle's  cabi- 
net is  bare  to  the  wainscot ;  even  were  it  still  intact,  I  have  done 
well  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  should  more  likely  add  to  it  than 
otherwise,  and  my  errand  to-day  is  simplicity  itself  ^  I  seek  a 
Christmas  present  for  a  lady,"  he  continued,  waxing  more  fluent 
as  he  struck  into  the  speech  he  had  prepared ;  "  and  certainly  I 
owe  you  every  excuse  for  thus  disturbing  you  upon  so  small  a 
matter.  But  the  thing  was  neglected  yesterday ;  I  must  produce 
my  little  compliment  at  dinner ;  and,  as  you  very  well  know,  a 
rich  marriage  is  not  a  thing  to  be  neglected." 

There  foUowed  a  pause,  during  which  the  dealer  seemed  to 
weigh  this  statement  incredulously.  The  ticking  of  many  clocks 
among  the  curious  lumber  of  the  shop,  and  the  faint  rushing  of 
the  cabs  in  a  near  thoroughfare,  filled  up  the  interval  of  silence. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  dealer,  "be  it  so.  You  are  an  old  cus- 
tomer after  all ;  and  if,  as  you  say,  you  have  the  chance  of  a  good 
marriage,  far  be  it  from  me  to  be  an  obstacle.  Here  is  a  nice 
thing  for  a  lady  now,"  he  went  on,  "this  hand  glass  —  fifteenth 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  'ff 

century,  warranted  ;  comes  from  a  good  collection,  too  ;  but  I 
reserve  the  name,  in  tlie  interests  of  my  customer,  who  was  just 
like  yourself,  my  dear  sir,  the  nephew  and  sole  heir  of  a  remark- 
able collector." 

The  dealer,  while  he  thus  ran  on  in  his  dry  and  biting  voice, 
had  stooped  to  take  the  object  from  its  place ;  and,  as  he  had 
done  so,  a  shock  had  passed  through  Markheim,  a  start  both  of 
hand  and  foot,  a  sudden  leap  of  many  tumultuous  passions  to  the 
face.  It  passed  as  swiftly  as  it  came,  and  left  no  trace  beyond  a 
certain  trembling  of  the  hand  that  now  received  the  gtass. 

"A  glass,"  he  said  hoarsely,  and  then  paused,  and  repeated  it 
more  clearly.     "A  glass?     For  Christmas  ?     Surely  not?" 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  cried  the  dealer.     "  Why  not  a  glass  ?  " 

Markheim  was  looking  upon  him  with  an  indefinable  expres- 
sion. "You  ask  me  why  not?"  he  said.  "  Why,  look  here  — 
look  in  it —  look  at  yourself!  Do  you  like  to  see  it?  No  !  nor 
I  —  nor  any  man." 

The  little  man  had  jumped  back  when  Markheim  had  so  sud- 
denly confronted  him  with  the  mirror ;  but  now,  perceiving  there 
was  nothing  worse  on  hand,  he  chuckled.  "  Your  future  lady,  sir, 
must  be  pretty  hard  favored,"  said  he. 

."  I  ask  you,"  said  Markheim,  "  for  a  Christmas  present,  and  you 
give  me  this  —  this  damned  reminder  of  years,  and  sins  and 
follies  —  this  hand-conscience!  Did  you  mean  it?  Had  you  a 
thought  in  your  mind  ?  Tell  me.  It  will  be  better  for  you  if  you 
do.  Come,  tell  me  about  yourself.  I  hazard  a  guess  now,  that 
you  are  in  secret  a  very  charitable  man?" 

The  dealer  looked  closely  at  his  companion.  It  was  very  odd, 
Markheim  did  not  appear  to  be  laughing ;  there  was  something  in 
his  face  like  an  eager  sparkle  of  hope,  but  nothing  of  mirth, 

"  What  are  you  driving  at?  "  the  dealer  asked. 

"  Not  charitable?"  returned  the  other,  gloomily.  "  Not  chari- 
table ;  not  pious  ;  not  scrupulous  ;  unloving,  unbeloved  ;  a  hand 
to  get  money,  a  safe  to  keep  it.  Is  that  all?  Dear  Gofi,  man,  is 
that  all?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  it  is,"  began  the  dealer,  with  some  sharp- 
ness, and  then  broke  off  again  into  a  chuckle.  "  But  I  see  this  is  a 
love  match  of  yours,  and  you  have  been  drinking  the  lady's  health." 


78  MARKHEIM 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  Markheim,  with  a  strange  curiosity.  "  Ah,  have 
you  been  in  love?     Tell  me  about  that." 

"  I,"  cried  the  dealer.  "  I  in  love  !  I  never  had  the  time,  nor 
have  I  the  time  to-day  for  all  this  nonsense.  Will  you  take  the 
glass?" 

"  Where  is  the  hurry?  "  returned  Markheim.  "  It  is  very  pleas- 
ant to  stand  here  talking ;  and  life  is  so  short  and  insecure  that  I 
would  not  hurry  away  from  any  pleasure  —  no,  not  even  from  so . 
mild  a  one  as  this.  We  should  rather  cling,  cling  to  what  little  we 
can  get,  like'^a-raan  at  a  cliff's  edge.  Every  second  is  a  chff,  if 
you  think  upon  it  —  a  chff  a  mile  high  —  high  enough,  if  we  fall, 
to  dash  us  out  of  every  feature  of  humanity.  Hence  it  is  best  to 
talk  pleasantly.  Let  us  talk  of  each  other ;  wh^^hpijld  we  wear 
this  mask?  Let  us  be  confidential.  Who  knows,  we  might  be- 
come friends?  "  '^   ^ 

"  I  have  just  one  word  to  say  to  you,"  said  the  dealer.  "  Either 
make  your  purchase,  or  walk  out  of  my  shop." 

"  True,  true,"  said  Markheim.  "  Enough  fooling.  To  business. 
Show  me  something  else." 

The  dealer  stooped  once  more,  this  time  to  replace  the  glass 
upon  the  shelf,  his  thin  blond  hair  falling  over  his  eyes  as  he  did 
so.  Markheim  moved  a  little  nearer,  with  one  hand  in  the  pocket 
of  his  greatcoat ;  he  drew  himself  up  and  filled  his  lungs ;  at  the 
same  time  many  different  emotions  were  depicted  together  on  his 
face  —  terror,  horror,  and  resolve,  fascination  and  a  physical  repul- 
sion ;  and  through  a  haggard  lift  of  his  upper  hp,  his  teeth  looked 
out. 

"  This,  perhaps,  may  suit,"  observed  the  dealer ;  and  then,  as 
he  began  to  rearise,  Markhein^  bourided  from  behind  upon  his 
victim.  The  long,  skewerlike  dagger  flashed  and  fell.  The 
dealer  struggled  like  a  hen,  striking  his  temple  on  the  shelf,  and 
then  tumbled  on  the  floor  in  a  heap. 

Time  had  some  score  of  small  voices  in  that  shop,  some  stately 
and  slow  as  was'  becoming  to  their  great  age  ;  others  garrulous 
and  hurried.  ATI  these  told  out  the  seconds  in  an  intricate  chorus 
of  tickings.  Then  the  passage  of  a  lad's  feet,  heavily  running  on 
the  pavement,  broke  in  upon  these  smaller  voices  and  startled 
Markheim  into  the  consciousness  of  his  surroundings.     He  looked 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  /g 

about  him  awfully.  The  candle  stood  on  the  counter,  its  flame 
solemnly  wagging  in  a  draught ;  and  by  that  inconsiderable  move- 
ment, the  whole  room  was  filled  with  noiseless  bustle  and  kept 
heaving  like  a  sea  :  the  tall  shadows  nodding,  the  gross  blots  of 
darkness  swelling  and  dwindling  as  with  respiration,  the  faces  of 
the  portraits  and  the  china  gods  changing  and  wavering  like 
images  in  water.  The  inner  door  stood  ajar,  and  peered  into  that 
■leaguer  of  shadows  with  a  long  slit  of  dayHght  like  a  pointing  finger. 

From  these  fear-stricken  rovings,  Markheim's  eyes  returned  to 
the  body  of  his  victim,  where  it  lay  both  humped  and  sprawling, 
incredibly  small  and  strangely  meaner  than  in  Hfe.  In  these  poor, 
miserly  clothes,  in  that  ungainly  attitude,  the  dealer  lay  like  so 
much  sawdust.  Markheim  had  feared  to  see  it,  and,  lo  !  it  was 
nothing.  And  yet,  as  he  gazed,  this  bundle  of  old  clothes  and 
pool  of  blood  began  to  find  eloquent  voices.  There  it  must  lie  ; 
there  was  none  to  work  the  cunning  hinges  or  direct  the  miracle 
of  locomotion  —  there  it  must  lie  till  it  was  found.  Found  !  ay, 
and  then  ?  Then  would  this  dead  flesh  lift  up  a  cry  that  would 
ring  over  England,  and  fill  the  world  with  the  echoes  of  pursuit. 
Ay,  dead  or  not,  this  was  still  the  enemy.  "Time  was  that  when 
the  brains  were  out,"  he  thought ;  and  the  first  word  struck  into 
his  mind.  Time,  now  that  the  deed  was  accomplished  —  time, 
which  had  closed  for  the  victim,  had  become  instant  and  momen- 
tous for  the  slayer. 

The  thought  was  yet  in  his  mind,  when,  first  one  and  then 
another,  with  every  variety  of  pace  and  voice  —  one  deep  as  the 
bell  from  a  cathedral  turret,  another  ringing  on  its  treble  notes 
the  prelude  of  a  waltz  —  the  clocks  began  to  strike  the  hour  of 
three  in  the  afternoon. 

The  sudden  outbreak  of  so  many  tongues  in  that  dumb  chamber 
staggered  him.  He  began  to  bestir  himself,  going  to  and  fro  with 
the  candle,  beleaguered  by  moving  shadows,  and  startled  to  the 
soul  by  chance  reflections.  In  many  rich  mirrors,  some  of  home 
designs,  some  from  Venice  or  Amsterdam,  he  saw  his  face  repeated 
and  repeated,  as  it  were  an  army  of  spies  ;  his  own  eyes  met  and 
detected  him  ;  and  the  sound  of  his  owr^teps,  lightly  as  they  fell, 
vexed  the  surrounding  quiet.  And  still  as  he  continued  to  fiU  his 
pockets,  his  mind  accused  him,  with  a  sickening  iteration,  of  the 


8o  MARKHEIM 

thousand  faults  of  his  design.  He  should  have  chosen  a  more 
quiet  hour ;  he  should  have  prepared  an  alibi ;  he  should  not  have 
used  a  knife  ;  he  should  have  been  more  cautious,  and  only  bound 
and  gagged  the  dealer,  and  not  killed  him  ;  he  should  have  been 
more  bold,  and  killed  the  servant  also ;  he  should  have  done  all 
things  otherwise ;  poignant  regrets,  weary,  incessant  toiling  of  the 
mind  to  change  what  was  unchangeable,  to  plan  what  was  now 
useless,  to  be  the  architect  of  the  irrevocable  past.  Meanwhile, 
and  behind  all  this  activity,  brute  terrors,  like  the  scurrying  of  rats 
in  a  deserted  attic,  filled  the  more  remote  chambers  of  his  brain 
with  riot ;  the  hand  of  the  constable  would  fall  heavy  on  his  shoul- 
der, and  his  nerves  would  jerk  like  a  hooked  fish ;  or  he  beheld,  in 
galloping  defile,  the  dock,  the  prison,  the  gallows,  and  the  black 
coffin. 

Terror  of  the  people  in  the  street  sat  down  before  his  mind  like 
a  besieging  army.  It  was  impossible,  he  thought,  but  that  some 
rumor  of  the  struggle  must  have  reached  their  ears  and  set  on 
edge  their  curiosity ;  and  now,  in  all  the  neighbouring  houses,  he 
divined  them  sitting  motionless  and  with  uplifted  ear  —  solitary 
people,  condemned  to  spend  Christmas  dwelling  alone  on  memo- 
ries of  the  past,  and  now  startlingly  recalled  from  that  tender  exer- 
cise ;  happy  family  parties,  struck  into  silence  round  the  table, 
the  mother  still  with  raised  finger  :  every  degree  and  age  and 
humour,  but  all,  by  their  own  hearths,  prying  and  hearkening  and 
weaving  the  rope  that  was  to  hang  him.  Sometimes  it  seemed  to 
him  he  could  not  move  too  softly ;  the  clink  of  the  tall  Bohemian 
goblets  rang  out  loudly  like  a  bell ;  and  alarmed  by  the  bigness  of 
the  ticking,  he  was  tempted  to  stop  the  clocks.  And  then,  again, 
with  a  swift  transition  of  his  terrors,  the  very  silence  of  the  place 
appeared  a  source  of  peril,  and  a  thing  to  strike  and  freeze  the 
passer-by;  and  he  would  step  more  boldly,  and  bustle  aloud 
among  the  contents  of  the  shop,  and  imitate,  with  elaborate 
bravado,  the  movements  of  a  busy  man  at  ease  in  his  own  house. 

But  he  was  now  so  pulled  about  by  different  alarms  that,  while 
one  portion  of  his  mind  was  still  alert  and  cunning,  another  trem- 
bled on  the  brink  of  lun^y.  One  hallucination  in  particular  took 
a  strong  hold  on  his  credulity.  The  neighbour  hearkening  with 
white  face  beside  his  window,  the  passer-by  arrested  by  a  horrible 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  8 1 

surmise  on  the  pavement  —  these  could  at  worst  suspect,  they 
could  not  know ;  through  the  brick  walls  and  shuttered  windows 
only  sounds  could  penetrate.  But  here,  within  the  house,  was  he 
alone?  He  knew  he  was;  he  had  watched  the  servant  set  forth 
sweethearting,  in  her  poor  best,  "  out  for  the  day  "  written  in 
every  ribbon  and  smile.  Yes,  he  was  alone,  of  course  ;  and  yet, 
in  the  bulk  of  empty  house  above  him,  he  could  surely  hear  a 
stir  of  dehcate  footing  —  he  was  surely  conscious,  inexplicably 
conscious  of  some  presence.  Ay,  surely ;  to  every  room  and 
corner  of  the  house  his  imagination  followed  it ;  and  now  it  was 
a  faceless  thing,  and  yet  had  eyes  to  see  with ;  and  again  it  was 
a  shadow  of  himself;  and  yet  again  behold  the  image  of  the  dead 
dealer,  reinspired  with  cunning  and  hatred. 

At  times,  with  a  strong  effort,  he  would  glance  at  the  open 
door  which  still  seemed  to  repel  his  eyes.  The  house  was  tall, 
the  skylight  small  and  dirty,  the  day  bhnd  with  fog ;  and  the 
light  that  filtered  down  to  the  ground  story  was  exceedingly  faint, 
and  showed  dimly  on  the  threshold  of  the  shop.  And  yet,  in 
that  strip  of  doubtful  brightness,  did  there  not  hang  wavering  a 
shadow  ? 

Suddenly,  from  the  street  outside,  a  very  jovial  gentleman  be- 
gan to  beat  with  a  staff  on  the  shop-door,  accompanying  his  blows 
with  shouts  and  railleries  in  which  the  dealer  was  continually 
called  upon  by  name.  Markheim,  smitten  into  ice,  glanced  at  the 
dead  man.  But  no  !  he  lay  quite  still;  he  was  fled  away  far  be- 
yond earshot  of  these  blows  and  shoutings ;  he  was  sunk  beneath 
seas  of  silence  ;  and  his  name,  which  would  once  have  caught  his 
notice  above  the  howling  of  a  storm,  had  become  an  empty  sound. 
And  presently  the  jovial  gendeman  desisted  from  his  knocking 
and  departed. 

Here  was  a  broad  hint  to  hurry  what  remained  to  be  done,  to 
get  forth  from  this  accusing  neighbourhood,  to  plunge  into  a  bath 
of  London  multitudes,  and  to  reach,  on  the  other  side  of  day, 
that  haven  of  safety  and  apparent  innocence  — his  bed.  One. 
visitor  had  come  :  at  any  moment  another  might  follow  and  be 
more  obstinate.  To  have  done  the  deed»  and  yet  not  to  reap  the 
profit,  would  be  too  abhorrent  a  failure.  The  money,  that  was 
now  Markheim's  concern ;  and  as  a  means  to  that,  the  keys. 

G 


82  MARK H EI M 

He  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  the  open  door,  where  the 
shadow  was  still  lingering  and  shivering;  and  with  no  conscious 
repugnance  of  the  mind,  yet  with  a  tremor  of  the  belly,  he  drew 
near  the  body  of  his  victim.  The  human  character  had  quite 
departed.  Like  a  suit  half-stuffed  with  bran,  the  hmbs  lay  scat- 
tered, the  trunk  doubled,  on  the  floor ;  and  yet  the  thing  repelled 
him.  Although  so  dingy  and  inconsiderable  to  the  eye,  he  feared 
it  might  have  more  significance  to  the  touch.  He  took  the  body 
by  the  shoulders,  and  turned  it  on  its  back.  It  was  strangely 
light  and  supple,  and  the  limbs,  as  if  they  had  been  broken,  fell 
into  the  oddest  postures.  The  face  was  robbed  of  all  expression; 
but  it  was  as  pale  as  wax,  and  shockingly  smeared  with  blood 
about  one  temple.  That  was,  for  Markheim,  the  one  displeasing 
circumstance.  It  carried  him  back,  upon  the  instant,  to  a  certairj 
fair  day  in  a  fishers'  village  :  a  gray  day,  a  piping  wind,  a  crowd 
upon  the  street,  the  blare  of  brasses,  the  booming  of  drums,  the 
nasal  voice  of  a  ballad  singer ;  and  a  boy  going  to  and  fro,  buried 
over  head  in  the  crowd  and  divided  between  interest  and  fear, 
until,  coming  out  upon  the  chief  place  of  concourse,  he  beheld 
a  booth  and  a  great  screen  with  pictures,  dismally  designed, 
garishly  colored  :  Brownrigg  with  her  apprentice  ;  the  Mannings 
with  their  murdered  guest ;  Weare  in  the  death-grip  of  Thurtell ; 
and  a  score  besides  of  famous  crimes.  The  thing  was  as  clear  as 
an  illusion  :  he  was  once  again  that  little  boy  ;  he  was  looking  once 
again,  and  with  the  same  sense  of  physical  revolt,  at  these  vile 
pictures ;  he  was  still  stunned  by  the  thumping  of  the  drums.  A 
bar  of  that  day's  music  returned  upon  his  memory  ;  and  at  that,  for 
the  first  time,  a  qualm  came  over  him,  a  breath  of  nausea,  a  sudden 
weakness  of  the  joints,  which  he  must  instantly  resist  and  conquer. 

He  judged  it  more  prudent  to  confront  than  to  flee  from  these 
considerations  ;  looking  the  more  hardily  in  the  dead  face,  bend- 
ing his  mind  to  realize  the  nature  and  greatness  of  his  crime.  So 
little  a  while  ago  that  face  had  moved  with  every  change  of  senti- 
ment, that  pale  mouth  had  spoken,  that  body  had  been  all  on  fire 
with  governable  energies:  and  now,  and  by  his  act,  that  piece  of 
life  had  been  arrested,  as  the  horologist,  with  interjected  finger, 
arrests  the  beating  of  the  clock.  So  he  reasoned  in  vain ;  he 
could  rise  to  no  more  remorseful  consciousness ;  the  same  heart 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  83 

which  had  shuddered  before  the  painted  effigies  of  crime,  looked 

on  its  reahty  unmoved.     At  bes1;_j_;hej:i[ej[t|;^|'g||§?^TivM;:  ^^^^ 

who  had  been  endowed  in  vain  with  jill_  those 

make  the  world  a  garden  of  end 

lived  and  who  was  now  dead.     But  of  penitence,  no,  not  a  tremor. 

With  that,  shaking  himself  clear  of  these  considerations,  he 
found  the  keys  and  advanced  towards  the  open  door  of  the  shop. 
Outside,  it  had  begun  to  rain  smartly ;  and  the  sound  of  the 
shower  upon  the  roof  had  banished  silence.  Like  some  dripping 
cavern,  the  chambers  of  the  house  were  haunted  by  an  incessant 
echoing,  which  filled  the  ear  and  mingled  with  the  ticking  of  the 
clocks.  And,  as  Markheim  approached  the  door,  he  seemed  to 
hear,  in  answer  to  his  own  cautious  tread,  the  steps  of  another 
foot  withdrawing  up  the  stair.  The  shadow  still  palpitated  loosely 
on  the  threshold.  He  threw  a  ton's  weight  of  resolve  upon  his 
muscles,  and  drew  back  the  door. 

The  faint,  foggy  daylight  glimmered  dimly  on  the  bare  floor  and 
stairs ;  on  the  bright  suit  of  armour  posted,  halbert  in  hand,  upon 
the  landing ;  and  on  the  dark  wood-carvings,  and  framed  pictures 
that  hung  against  the  yellow  panels  of  the  wainscot.  So  loud  was 
the  beating  of  the  rain  through  all  the  house  that,  in  Markheim's 
ears,  it  began  to  be  distinguished  into  many  different  sounds. 
Footsteps  and  sighs,  the  tread  of  regiments  marching  in  the  dis- 
tance, the  chink  of  money  in  the  counting,  and  the  creaking  of 
doors  held  stealthily  ajar,  appeared  to  mingle  with  the  patter  of  the 
drops  upon  the  cupola  and  the  gushing  of  the  water  in  the  pipes. 
The  sense  that  he  was  not  alone  grew  upon  him  to  the  verge  of 
madness.  On  every  side  he  was  haunted  and  begirt  by  presences. 
He  heard  them  moving  in  the  upper  chambers ;  from  the  shop,  he 
heard  the  dead  man  getting  to  his  legs  ;  and  as  he  began  with  a 
great  effort  to  mount  the  stairs,  feet  fled  quietly  before  him  and 
followed  stealthily  behind.  If  he  were  but  deaf,  he  thought,  how 
tranquilly  he  would  possess  his  soul  !  And  then  again,  and  heark- 
ening with  ever  fresh  attention,  he  blessed  himself  for  that  unrest- 
ing sense  which  held  the  outposts  and  stood  a  trusty  sentinel  upon 
his  life.  His  head  turned  continually  on  his  neck ;  his  eyes,  which 
seemed  starting  from  their  orbits,  scouted  on  every  side,  and  on 
every  side  were  half-rewarded  as  with  the  tail  of  something  name- 


84  MARKHEIM 

iess  vanishing.  The  four-and-twenty  steps  to  the  first  floor  were 
four-and-twenty  agonies. 

On  that  first  storey,  the  doors  stood  ajar,  three  of  them 
like  three  ambushes,  shaking  his  nerves  like  the  throats  of 
cannon.  He  could  never  again,  he  felt,  be  sufficiently  immured 
and  fortified  from  men's  observing  eyes ;  he  longed  to  be  home, 
girt  in  by  walls,  buried  among  bedclothes,  and  invisible  to 
all  but  God.  And  at  that  thought  he  wondered  a  little,  recol- 
lecting tales  of  other  murderers  and  the  fear  they  were  said  to 
entertain  of  heavenly  avengers.  It  was  not  so,  at  least,  with  him. 
He  feared  the  laws  of  nature,  lest,  in  their  callous  and  immutable 
procedure,  they  should  preserve  some  damning  evidence  of  his 
crime.  He  feared  tenfold  more,  with  a  slavish,  superstitious  terror, 
some  scission  in  the  continuity  of  man's  experience,  some  wilful 
illegality  of  nature.  He  played  a  game  of  skill,  depending  on  the 
rules,  calculating  consequence  from  cause  ;  and  what  if  nature,  as 
the  defeated  tyrant  overthrew  the  chess-board,  should  break  the 
mould  of  their  succession?  The  like  had  befallen  Napoleon  (so 
writers  said)  when  the  winter  changed  the  time  of  its  appearance. 
The  like  might  befall  Markheim  :  the  solid  walls  might  become 
transparent  and  reveal  his  doings  like  those  of  bees  in  a  glass  hive  ; 
the  stout  planks  might  yield  under  his  foot  hke  quicksands  and 
detain  him  in  their  clutch;  ay,  and  there  were  soberer  accidents 
that  might  destroy  him  :  if,  for  instance,  the  house  should  fall  and 
imprison  him  beside  the  body  of  his  victim ;  or  the  house  next 
door  should  fly  on  fire,  and  the  firemen  invade  him  from  all  sides. 
These  things  he  feared  \  and,  in  a  sense,  these  things  might  be 
called  the  hands  of  God  reached  forth  against  sin.  But  about 
God  himself  he  was  at  ease  ;  his  act  was  doubtless  exceptional, 
but  so  were  his  excuses,  which  God  knew  ;  it  was  there,  and  not 
among  men,  that  he  felt  sure  of  justice. 

When  he  had  got  safe  into  the  drawing-room,  and  shut  the  door 
behind  him,  he  was  aware  of  a  respite  from  alarms.  The  room 
was  quite  dismantled,  uncarpeted  besides,  and  strewn  with  pack- 
ing cases  and  incongruous  furniture  ;  several  great  pier-glasses,  m 
which  he  beheld  himself  at  various  angles,  like  an  actor  on  a  stage  ; 
many  pictures,  framed  and  unframed,  standing,  with  their  faces  to 
the  wall ;  a  fine  Sheraton  sideboard,  a  cabinet  of  marquetry,  and 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  85 

a  great  old  bed,  with  tapestry  hangings.  The  windows  opened  to 
the  floor ;  but  by  great  good  fortune  the  lower  part  of  the  shutters 
had  been  closed,  and  this  concealed  him  from  the  neighbors. 
Here,  tl-^en,  Markheim  drew  in  a  packing  case  before  the  cabinet, 
and  began  to  search  among  the  keys.  It  was  a  long  business,  for 
there  were  many  ;  and  it  was  irksome,  besides  ;  for,  after  all,  there 
might  be  nothing  in  the  cabinet,  and  time  was  on  the  wing.  But 
the  closeness  of  the  occupation  sobered  him.  With  the  tail  of 
his  eye  he  saw  the  door — even  glanced  at  it  from  time  to  time 
directly,  like  a  besieged  commander  pleased  to  verify  the  good 
estate  of  his  defences.  But  in  truth  he  was  at  peace.  The  rain 
falling  in  the  street  sounded  natural  and  pleasant.  Presently,  on 
the  other  side,  the  notes  of  a  piano  were  wakened  to  the  music  of 
a  hymn,  and  the  voices  of  many  children  took  up  the  air  and 
words.  How  stately,  how  comfortable  was  the  melody  !  How 
fresh  the  youthful  voices  !  Markheim  gave  ear  to  it  smilingly,  as 
he  sorted  out  the  keys  ;  and  his  mind  was  thronged  with  answer- 
able ideas  and  images ;  church-going  children  and  the  pealing  of 
the  high  organ  ;  children  afield,  bathers  by  the  brookside,  ramblers 
on  the  brambly  common,  kite-flyers  in  the  windy  and  cloud-navi- 
gated sky ;  and  then,  at  another  cadence  of  the  hymn,  back  again 
to  church,  and  the  somnolence  of  summer  Sundays,  and  the  high 
genteel  voice  of  the  parson  (which  he  smiled  a  little  to  recall)  and 
the  painted  Jacobean  tombs,  and  the  dim  lettering  of  the  Ten 
Commandments  in  the  chancel. 

And  as  he  sat  thus,  at  once  busy  and  absent,  he  was  startled  to 
his  feet.  A  flash  of  ice,  a  flash  of  fire,  a  bursting  gush  of  blood, 
went  over  him,  and  then  he  stood  transfixed  and  thrilling.  A  step 
mounted  the  stair  slowly  and  steadily,  and  presently  a  hand  was 
laid  upon  the  knob,  and  the  lock  clicked,  and  the  door  opened. 

Fear  held  Markheim  in  a  vice.  What  to  expect  he  knew  not, 
whether  the  dead  man  walking,  or  the  official  ministers  of  human 
justice,  or  some  chance  witness  blindly  stumbling  in  to  consign 
him  to  the  gallows.  But  when  a  face  was  thrust  into  the  aperture, 
glanced  round  the  room,  looked  at  him,  nodded  and  smiled  as  if 
in  friendly  recognition,  and  then  withdrew  again,  and  the  door 
closed  behind  it,  his  fear  broke  loose  from  his  control  in  a  hoarse 
cry.     At  the  sound  of  this  the  visitant  returned. 


86  '  MARKHEIM 

"Did  you  call  me?"  he  asked  pleasantly,  and  with  that  he 
entered  the  room  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

Markheim  stood  and  gazed  at  him  with  all  his  eyes.  Perhaps 
there  was  a  film  upon  his  sight,  but  the  outlines  of  the  newcomer 
seemed  to  change  and  waver  like  those  of  the  idols  in  the  waver- 
ing candle-light  of  the  shop ;  and  at  times  he  thought  he  knew 
him ;  and  at  times  he  thought  he  bore  a  likeness  to  himself;  and 
always,  like  a  lump  of  living  terror,  there  lay  in  his  bosom  the 
conviction  that  this  thing  was  not  of  the  earth  and  not  of  God. 

And  yet  the  creature  had  a  strange  air  of  the  commonplace,  as 
he  stood  looking  on  Markheim  with  a  smile ;  and  when  he  added, 
"You  are  looking  for  the  money,  I  beUeve?"  it  was  in  the  tones 
of  everyday  politeness. 

Markheim  made  no  answer. 

"I  should  warn  you,"  resumed  the  other,  "that  the  maid  has 
left  her  sweetheart  earlier  than  usual  and  will  soon  be  here.  If 
Mr.  Markheim  be  found  in  this  house,  I  need  not  describe  to  him 
the  consequences." 

"You  know  me?"  cried  the  murderer. 

The  visitor  smiled.  "You  have  long  been  a  favorite  of  mine," 
he  said  ;  "  and  I  have  long  observed  and  often  sought  to  help  you." 

"  What  are  you  ?  "  cried  Markheim  ;  "  the  devil  ?  " 

"  What  I  may  be,"  returned  the  other,  "  cannot  affect  the  ser- 
vice I  propose  to  render  you." 

"It  can,"  cried  Markheim;  "it  does!  Be  helped  by  you? 
No,  never  ;  not  by  you  !  You  do  not  know  me  yet ;  thank  God, 
you  do  not  know  me  !  " 

"  I  know  you,"  replied  the  visitant,  with  a  sort  of  kind  severity 
or  rather  firmness.     "  I  know  you  to  the  soul." 

"Know  me  ! "  cried  Markheim.  "Who  can  do  so?  My  life  is  but 
a  travesty  and  slander  on  myself.  I  have  lived  to  belie  my  nature. 
All  men  do  ;  all  men  are  better  than  this  disguise  that  grows  about 
and  stifles  them.  You  see  each  dragged  away  by  life,  hke  one  whom 
bravos  have  seized  and  muffled  in  a  cloak.  If  they  had  their  own 
control  —  if  you  could  see  their  faces,  they  would  be  altogether 
different,  they  would  shine  out  for  heroes  and  saints  !  I  am  worse 
than  most ;  myself  is  more  overlaid  ;  my  excuse  is  known  to  me 
and  God.     But,  had  I  the  time,  I  could  disclose  myself." 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON     .  8/ 

"  To  me  ?  "  inquired  the  visitant. 

"To  you  before  all,"  returned  the  murderer.  "  I  supposed  you 
were  intelligent.  I  thought  —  since  you  exist  —  you  would  prove 
a  reader  of  the  heart.  And  yet  you  would  propose  to  judge  me 
by  my  acts  1  Think  of  it ;  my  acts  !  I  was  born  and  I  have  lived 
in  a  land  of  giants ;  giants  have  dragged  me  by  the  wrists  since  I 
was  born  out  of  my  mother  —  the  giants  of  circumstance.  And 
you  would  judge  me  by  my  acts  !  But  can  you  not  look  within? 
Can  you  not  understand  that  evil  is  hateful  to  me?  Can  you  not 
see  within  me  the  clear  writing  of  conscience,  never  blurred  by 
any  wilful  sophistry,  although  too  often,  disregarded?  Can  you 
not  read  me  for  a  thing  that  surely  must  be  common  as  humanity 
—  the  unwilling  sinner?" 

"  All  this  is  very  feelingly  expressed,"  was  the  reply,  "  but  it 
regards  me  not.  These  points  of  consistency  are  beyond  my 
province,  and  I  care  not  in  the  least  by  what  compulsion  you  may 
have  been  dragged  away,  so  as  you  are  but  carried  in  the  right 
direction.  But  time  flies  \  the  servant  delays,  looking  in  the  faces 
of  the  crowd  and  at  the  pictures  on  the  hoardings,  but  still  she 
keeps  moving  nearer ;  and  remember,  it  is  as  if  the  gallows  itself 
was  striding  towards  you  through  the  Christmas  streets  !  Shall 
I  help  you  ;  I,  who  know  all?  Shall  I  tell  you  where  to  find  the 
money?  " 

"  For  what  price?  "  asked  Markheim. 

"I  offer  you  the  service  for  a  Christmas  gift,"  returned  the 
other. 

Markheim  could  not  refrain  from  smihng  with  a  kind  of  bitter 
triumph.  "  No,"  said  he,  "  I  will  take  nothing  at  your  hands ; 
if  I  were  dying  of  thirst,  and  it  was  your  hand  that  put  the  pitcher 
to  my  lips,  I  should  find  the  courage  to  refuse.  It  may  be  credu- 
lous, but  I  will  do  nothing  to  commit  myself  to  evil." 

"  I  have  no  objection  to  a  death-bed  repentance,"  observed  the 
visitant. 

"  Because  you  disbelieve  their  efficacy  !  "  Markheim  cried. 

"I  do  not  say  so,"  returned  the  other;  "but  I  look  on  these 
things  from  a  different  side,  and  when  the  life  is  done  my  interest 
falls.  The  man  has  lived  to  serve  me,  to  spread  black  looks 
under  colour  of  religion,  or  to  sow  tares  in  the  wheat-field,  as  you 


8S  MARKHEIM 

do,  in  a  course  of  weak  compliance  with  desire.  Now  that  he 
draws  so  near  to  his  deHverance,  he  can  add  but  one  act  of  ser- 
vice—  to  repent,  to  die  smiHng,  and  thus  to  build  up  in  confi- 
dence and  hope  the  more  timorous  of  my  surviving  followers.  I 
am  not  so  hard  a  master.  Try  me.  Accept  my  help.  Please 
yourself  in  life  as  you  have  done  hitherto ;  please  yourself  more 
amply,  spread  your  elbows  at  the  board ;  and  when  the  night  be- 
gins to  fall  and  the  curtains  to  be  drawn,  I  tell  you,  for  your 
greater  comfort,  that  you  will  find  it  even  easy  to  compound  your 
quarrel  with  your  conscience,  and  to  make  a  truckling  peace  with 
God.  I  came  but  now  from  such  a  death-bed,  and  the  room  was 
full  of  sincere  mourners,  listening  to  the  man's  last  words  :  and 
when  I  looked  into  that  face,  which  had  been  set  as  a  flint  against 
mercy,  I  found  it  smiling  with  hope." 

"  And  do  you,  then,  suppose  me  such  a  creature?  "  asked  Mark- 
heim.  "  Do  you  think  I  have  no  more  generous  aspirations  than 
to  sin,  and  sin,  and  sin,  and,  at  last,  sneak  into  heaven?  My 
heart  rises  at  the  thought.  Is  this,  then,  your  experience  of  man- 
*kind?  or  is  it  because  you  find  me  with  red  hands  that  you  pre- 
sume such  baseness?  and  is  this  crime  of  murder  indeed  so  impious 
as  to  dry  up  the  very  springs  of  good  ?  " 

"  Murder  is  to  me  no  special  category,"  replied  the  other.  "All 
sins  are  murder,  even  as  all  life  is  war.  I  behold  your  race,  like 
starving  mariners  on  a  raft,  plucking  crusts  out  of  the  hands  of 
famine  and  feeding  on  each  other's  Jives.  I  follow  sins  beyond 
the  moment  of  their  acting  ;  I  find  in  all  that  the  last  consequence 
is  death  ;  and  to  my  eyes,  the  pretty  maid  who  thwarts  her  mother 
with  such  taking  graces  on  a  question  of  a  ball,  drips  no  less  visi- 
bly with  human  gore  than  such  a  murderer  as  yourself.  Do  I  say 
that  I  follow  sins?  I  follow  virtues  also;  they  differ  not  by  the 
thickness  of  a  nail,  they  are  both  scythes  for  the  reaping  angel  of 
Death.  Evil,  for  which  I  live,  consists  not  in  action,  but  in  char- 
acter. The  bad  man  is  dear  to  me  ;  not  the  bad  act,  whose  fruits, 
if  we  could  follow  them  far  enough  down  the  hurtling  cataract  of 
the  ages,  might  yet  be  found  more  blessed  than  those  of  the  rarest 
virtues.  And  it  is  not  because  you  have  killed  a  dealer,  but  because 
you  are  Markheim,  that  I  offered  to  forward  your  escape." 

"  I  will  lay  my  heart  open  to  you,"  answered  Markheim.    "  This 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  89 

crime  on  which  you  find  me  is  my  last.  On  my  way  to  it  I  have 
!earnecl  many  lessons  ;  itself  is  a  lesson,  a  momentous  lesson. 
Hitherto  I  have  been  driven  with  revolt  to  what  I  would  not ;  I 
was  a  bond-slave  to  poverty,  driven  and  scourged.  There  are 
robust  virtues  that  can  stand  in  these  temptations ;  mine  was  not 
so  :  I  had  a  thirst  of  pleasure.  But  to-day,  and  out  of  this  deed, 
I  pluck  both  warning  and  riches  —  both  the  power  and  a  fresh 
resolve  to  be  myself.  I  become  in  all  things  a  free  actor  in  the 
world  ;  I  begin  to  see  myself  all  changed,  these  hands  the  agents 
of  good,  this  heart  at  peace.  Something  comes  over  me  out  of 
the  past ;  something  of  what  I  have  dreamed  on  Sabbath  evenings 
to  the  sound  of  the  church  organ,  of  what  I  forecast  when  I  shed 
tears  over  noble  books,  or  talked,  an  innocent  child,  with  my 
mother.  There  lies  my  life  ;  I  have  wandered  a  few  years,  but 
now  I  see  once  more  my  city  of  destination." 

"You  are  to  use  this  money  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  I  think?" 
remarked  the  visitor;  "and  there,  if  I  mistake  not,  you  have 
already  lost  some  thousands?" 

"Ah,"  said  Markheim,  "  but  this  time  I  have  a  sure  thing."  . 

"This  time,  again,  you  will  lose,"  replied  the  visitor,  quietly. 

"Ah,  but  I  keep  back  the  half!"  cried  Markheim. 

"That  also  you  will  lose,"  said  the  other. 

The  sweat  started  upon  Markheim's  brow.  "  Well,  then,  what 
matter?"  he  exclaimed.  "Say  it  be  lost,  say  I  am  plunged  again 
in  poverty,  shall  one  part  of  me,  and  that  the  worse,  continue 
until  the  end  to  override  the  better?  Evil  and  good  run  strong 
in  me,  haling  me  both  ways.  I  do  not  love  the  one  thing,  I  love 
all.  I  can  conceive  great  deeds,  renunciations,  martyrdoms  ;  and 
though  I  be  fallen  to  such  a  crime  as  murder,  pity  is  no  stranger 
to  my  thoughts.  I  pity  the  poor ;  who  knows  their  trials  better 
than  myself  ?  I  pity  and  help  them  ;  I  prize  love,  I  love  honest 
laughter ;  there  is  no  good  thing  nor  true  thing  on  earth  but  I 
love  it  from  my  heart.  And  are  my  vices  only  to  direct  my  life, 
and  my  virtues  to  He  without  effect,  like  some  passive  lumber  of 
the  mind?     Not  so  ;  good,  also,  is  a  spring  of  acts." 

But  the  visitant  raised  his  finger.  "  For  six-and-thirty  years  that 
you  have  been  in  this  world,"  said  he,  "through  many  changes  of 
fortune  and  varieties  of  humour,  I  have  watched  you  steadily  fall. 


90  MARKHEIM 

Fifteen  years  ago  you  would  have  started  at  a  theft.  Three  years 
back  you  would  have  blenched  at  the  name  of  murder.  Is  there 
any  crime,  is  there  any  cruelty  or  meanness,  from  which  you  still 
recoil?  —  five  years  from  now  I  shall  detect  you  in  the  fact! 
Downward,  downward,  lies  your  way;  nor  can  anything  but 
death  avail  to  stop  you." 

"It  is  true,"  Markheim  said  huskily,  "I  have  in  some  degree 
compUed  with  evil.  But  it  is  so  with  all :  the  very  saints,  in  the 
mere  exercise  of  living,  grow  less  dainty,  and  take  on  the  tone  of 
their  surroundings." 

"  I  will  propound  to  you  one  simple  question,"  said  the  other ; 
"  and  as  you  answer,  I  shall  read  to  you  your  moral  horoscope. 
You  have  grown  in  many  things  more  lax ;  possibly  you  do  right 
to  be  so ;  and  at  any  account,  it  is  the  same  with  all  men.  But 
granting  that,  are  you  in  any  one  particular,  however  trifling,  more 
difficult  to  please  with  your  own  conduct,  or  do  you  go  in  all 
things  with  a  looser  rein?  " 

"In  any  one?"  repeated  Markheim,  with  an  anguish  of  con- 
sideration. "  No,"  he  added,  with  despair,  "  in  none  !  I  have 
gone  down  in  all," 

"  Then,"  said  the  visitor,  "content  yourself  with  what  you  are, 
for  you  will  never  change ;  and  the  words  of  your  part  on  this 
stage  are  irrevocably  written  down." 

Markheim  stood  for  a  long  while  silent,  and  indeed  it  was  the 
visitor  who  first  broke  the  silence.  "That  being  so,"  he  said, 
"shall  I  show  you  the  money?" 

"  And  grace  ?  "  cried  Markheim. 

"  Have  you  not  tried  it  ?  "  returned  the  other.  "Two  or  three 
years  ago,  did  I  not  see  you  on  the  platform  of  revival  meetings, 
and  was  not  your  voice  the  loudest  in  the  hymn?" 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Markheim ;  "  and  I  see  clearly  what  remains 
for  me  by  way  of  duty.  I  thank  you  for  these  lessons  from  my  soul ; 
my  eyes  are  opened,  and  I  behold  myself  at  last  for  what  I  am." 

At  this  moment,  the  sharp  note  of  the  door-bell  rang  through 
the  house  ;  and  the  visitant,  as  though  this  were  some  concerted 
signal  for  which  he  had  been  waiting,  changed  at  once  in  his 
demeanour. 

"The  maid!"  he  cried.     "She  has  returned,  as  I  forewarned 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  9 1 

you,  and  there  is  now  before  you  one  more  difificult  passage.  Her 
master,  you  must  say,  is  ill ;  you  must  let  her  in,  with  an  assured 
but  rather  serious  countenance  —  no  smiles,  no  overacting,  and  I 
promise  you  success  !  Once  the  girl  within,  and  the  door  closed, 
the  same  dexterity  that  has  already  rid  you  of  the  dealer  will 
relieve  you  of  this  last  danger  in  your  path.  Thenceforward  you 
have  the  whole  evening  —  the  whole  night,  if  needful  —  to  ran- 
sack the  treasures  of  the  house  and  to  make  good  your  safety. 
This  is  help  that  comes  to  you  with  the  mask  of  danger.  Up  !  " 
he  cried ;  "  up,  friend ;  your  life  hangs  trembling  in  the  scales ; 
up,  and  act !  " 

Markheim  steadily  regarded  his  counsellor.  "  If  I  be  con- 
demned to  evil  acts,"  he  said,  "  there  is  still  one  door  of  freedom 
open  —  I  can  cease  from  action.  If  my  Hfe  be  an  ill  thing,  I  can 
lay  it  down.  Though  I  be,  as  you  say  truly,  at  the  beck  of  every 
small  temptation,  I  can  yet,  by  one  decisive  gesture,  place  myself 
beyond  the  reach  of  all.  My  love  of  good  is  damned  to  barren- 
ness ;  it  may,  and  let  it  be  !  But  I  have  still  my  hatred  of  evil ; 
and  from  that,  to  your  galling  disappointment,  you  shall  see  that  I 
can  draw  both  energy  and  courage." 

The  features  of  the  visitor  began  to  undergo  a  wonderful  and 
lovely  change :  they  brightened  and  softened  with  a  tender 
triumph ;  and,  even  as  they  brightened,  faded  and  dislimned. 
But  Markheim  did  not  pause  to  watch  or  understand  the  trans- 
formation. He  opened  the  door  and  went  downstairs  very 
slowly,  thinking  to  himself.  His  past  went  soberly  before  him ; 
he  beheld  it  as  it  was,  ugly  and  strenuous  like  a  dream,  random  as 
chance-medley  —  a  scene  of  defeat.  Life,  as  he  thus  reviewed  it, 
tempted  him  no  longer ;  but  on  the  further  side  he  perceived  a 
quiet  haven  for  his  bark.  He  paused  in  the  passage,  and  looked 
into  the  shop,  where  the  candle  still  burned  by  the  dead  body. 
It  was  strangely  silent.  Thoughts  of  the  dealer  swarmed  into  his 
mind,  as  he  stood  gazing.  And  then  the  bell  once  more  broke 
out  into  impatient  clamour. 

He  confronted  the  maid  upon  the  threshold  with  something  like 
a  smile. 

"You  had  better  go  for  the  police,"  said  he;  "I  have  killed 
your  master." 


92  AMONG    THE    CORN-ROWS 

AMONG  THE  CORN-ROWS 

HAMLIN  GARLAND 

[From  Alain-  Ti-avelled  Roads.  This  is  the  second  part  of  the  story.  In 
the  first  part  Rob  is  in  Dakota.  "  He  was  from  one  of  the  finest  counties  of 
Wisconsin,  over  toward  Milwaukee.  He  was  of  German  parentage,  a  middle- 
sized,  cheery,  wide-awake,  good-looking  young  fellow  —  a  typical  claim-holder. 
He  was  always  confident,  jovial,  and  full  of  plans  for  the  future.  He  had  dug 
his  own  well,  built  his  own  shanty,  washed  and  mended  his  own  clothing.  He 
could  do  anything  and  do  it  well.  He  had  a  fine  field  of  wheat,  and  was  finish- 
ing the  ploughing  of  his  entire  quarter-section."  He  determines  to  go  back  to 
Wisconsin,  find  a  wife,  and  return  with  her  in  ten  days.] 

A  CORN-FIELD  in  July  is  a  sultry  place.  The  soil  is  hot  and  dry ; 
the  wind  comes  across  the  lazily-murmuring  leaves  laden  with  a 
warm,  sickening  smell  drawn  from  the  rapidly  growing,  broad- 
flung  banners  of  the  corn.  The  sun,  nearly  vertical,  drops  a  flood 
of  dazzling  light  upon  the  field  over  which  the  cool  shadows  run, 
only  to  make  the  heat  seem  the  more  intense. 

Julia  Peterson,  faint  with  hunger,  was  toiling  back  and  forth 
between  the  corn-rows,  holding  the  handles  of  the  double-shovel 
corn-plough,  while  her  little  brother  Otto  rode  the  steaming  horse. 
Her  heart  was  full  of  bitterness,  her  face  flushed  with  heat,  and 
her  muscles  aching  with  fatigue.  The  heat  grew  terrible.  The 
corn  came  to  her  shoulders,  and  not  a  breath  seemed  to  reach  her, 
while  the  sun,  nearing  the  noon  mark,  lay  pitilessly  upon  her 
shoulders,  protected  only  by  a  calico  dress.  The  dust  rose  under 
her  feet,  and  as  she  was  wet  with  perspiration  it  soiled  her  till, 
with  a  woman's  instinctive  cleanliness,  she  shuddered.  Her  head 
throbbed  dangerously.  What  matter  to  her  that  the  kingbird 
pitched  jovially  from  the  maples  to  catch  a  wandering  bluebottle 
fly,  that  the  robin  was  feeding  its  young,  that  the  bobolink  was 
singing?  All  these  things,  if  she  saw  them,  only  threw  her  bond- 
age to  labor  into  greater  relief. 

Across  the  field,  in  another  patch  of  corn,  she  could  see  her 
father  —  a  big,  gruff- voiced,  wide-bearded  Norwegian  —  at  work 
also  with  a  plough.  The  corn  must  be  ploughed,  and  so  she  toiled 
on,  the  tears  dropping  from  the  shadow  of  the  ugly  sun-bonnet 


HAMLIN  GARLAND  93 

she  wore.  Her  shoes,  coarse  and  square-toed,  chafed  her  feet ; 
her  hands,  large  and  strong,  were  browned,  or,  more  properly, 
burnt,  on  the  backs  by  the  sun.  The  horse's  harness  ''  creak- 
fracked  "as  he  swung  steadily  and  patiently  forward,  the  moisture 
pouring  from  his  sides,  his  nostrils  distended. 

The  field  bordered  on  a  road,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  road 
ran  a  river  —  a  broad,  clear,  shallow  expanse  at  that  point,  and  the 
eyes  of  the  boy  gazed  longingly  at  the  pond  and  the  cool  shadow 
each  time  that  he  turned  at  the  fence. 

"  Say,  Jule,  I'm  goin'  in  !  Come,  can't  I?  Come  —  say  !  "  he 
pleaded,  as  they  stopped  at  the  fence  to  let  the  horse  breathe. 

"  I've  let  you  go  wade  twice." 

"  But  that  don't  do  any  good.  My  legs  is  all  smarty,  'cause  ol' 
Jack  sweats  so."  The  boy  turned  around  on  the  horse's  back  and 
slid  back  to  his  rump,  "  I  can't  stand  jt  !  "  he  burst  out,  sliding 
off  and  darting  under  the  fence.     "  Father  can't  see." 

The  girl  put  her  elbows  on  the  fence  and  watched  her  little 
brother  as  he  sped  away  to  the  pool,  throwing  off  his  clothes  as 
he  ran,  whooping  with  uncontrollable  delight.  Soon  she  could 
hear  him  splashing  about  in  the  water  a  short  distance  up  the 
stream,  and  caught  glimpses  of  his  little  shiny  body  and  happy 
face.  How  cool  that  water  looked  !  And  the  shadows  there  by 
the  big  basswood  !  How  that  water  would  cool  her  blistered 
feet.  An  impulse  seized  her,  and  she  squeezed  between  the  rails 
of  the  fence,  and  stood  in  the  road  looking  up  and  down  to  see 
that  the  way  was  clear.  It  was  not  a  main-travelled  road  ;  no  one 
was  likely  to  come  ;  why  not  ? 

She  hurriedly  took  off  her  shoes  and  stockings  —  how  delicious 
the  cool,  soft  velvet  0/  the  grass  !  and  sitting  down  on  the  bank 
under  the  great  basswood,  whose  roots  formed  an  abrupt  bank, 
she  slid  her  poor  blistered,  chafed  feet  into  the  water,  her  bare 
head  leaned  against  the  huge  tree-trunk. 

And  now,  as  she  rested,  the  beauty  of  the  scene  came  to  her. 
Over  her  the  wind  moved  the  leaves.  A  jay  screamed  far  off,  as  if 
answering  the  cries  of  the  boy.  A  kingfisher  crossed  and  recrossed 
the  stream  with  dipping  sweep  of  his  wings.  The  river  sang  with 
its  hps  to  the  pebbles.  The  vast  clouds  went  by  majestically,  far 
above  the  tree-tops,  and  the  snap  and  buzzing  and  ringing  whir  of 


94  AMONG    THE    CORM-ROWS 

July  insects  made  a  ceaseless,  slumberous  undertone  of  song  solvent 
of  all  else.  The  tired  girl  forgot  her  work.  She  began  to  dream. 
This  would  not  last  always.  Some  one  would  come  to  release  her 
from  such  drudgery.  This  was  her  constant,  tenderest,  and  most 
secret  dream.  He  would  be  a  Yankee,  not  a  Norwegian.  The 
Yankees  didn't  ask  their  wives  to  work  in  the  field.  He  would 
have  a  home.  Perhaps  he'd  live  in  town  —  perhaps  a  merchant ! 
And  then  she  thought  of  the  drug  clerk  in  Rock  River  who  had 
looked  at  her  —  A  voice  broke  in  on  her  dream,  a  fresh,  manly  voice. 

"  Well,  by  jinks  !  if  it  ain't  Julia  !  Just  the  one  I  wanted  to 
see  !  " 

The  girl  turned,  saw  a  pleasant-faced  young  fellow  in  a  derby 
hat  and  a  cutaway  suit  of  diagonals. 

"  Bob  Rodemaker  !     How  come —  " 

She  remembered  her  situation  and  flushed,  looked  down  at  the 
water,  and  remained  perfectly  still. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  shake  hands?  Y'  don't  seem  very  glad  t' 
see  me." 

She  began  to  grow  angry.     "  If  you  had  any  eyes,  you'd  see." 

Rob  looked  over  the  edge  of  the  bank,  whistled,  turned  away. 
"Oh,  I  see!  Excuse  me!  Don't  blame  yeh  a  bit,  though. 
Good  weather  f'r  corn,"  he  went  on,  looking  up  at  the  trees. 
"  Corn  seems  to  be  pretty  well  forward,"  he  continued,  in  a  louder 
voice,  as  he  walked  away,  still  gazing  into  the  air.  "  Crops  is 
looking  first-class  in  Boom  town.  Hello!  This  Otto?  H'yare,  y' 
little  scamp  !  Get  on  to  that  horse  agin.  Quick,  'r  I'll  take  y'r 
skin  off  an'  hang  it  on  the  fence.     What  y'  been  doin'?  " 

"Ben  in  swimmin'.  Jimminy,  ain't  it  fun!  When  'd  y'  get 
back?  "  said  the  boy,  grinning. 

"  Never  you  mind  ! "  replied  Rob,  leaping  the  fence  by  laying 
his  left  hand  on  the  top  rail.  "  Get  on  to  that  horse."  He  tossed 
the  boy  up  on  the  horse,  and  hung  his  coat  on  the  fence.  "  I 
s'pose  the  ol'  man  makes  her  plough,  same  as  usual?" 

"  Yup,"  said  Otto. 

"  Dod  ding  a  man  that'll  do  that !  I  don't  mind  if  it's  neces- 
sary, but  it  ain't  necessary  in  his  case."  He  continued  to  mutter 
in  this  way  as  he  went  across  to  the  other  side  of  the  field.  As 
they  turned  to  come  back,  Rob  went  up  and  looked  at  the  horse's 


HAMLIN  GARLAND  95 

mouth.  "  Gettin'  purty  near  of  age.  Say,  who's  sparkin'  Julia 
now  —  anybody  ?  " 

"  Nobody  'cept  some  ol'  Norwegians.  She  won't  have  them. 
Por  wants  her  to,  but  she  won't." 

"Good  f'r  her.    Nobody  comes  t'  see  her  Sunday  nights,  eh?" 

"  Nope  ;  only  'Tias  Anderson  an'  Ole  Hoover ;  but  she  goes 
off  an'  leaves  'em." 

"  Chk  !  "  said  Rob,  starting  old  Jack  across  the  field. 

It  was  almost  noon,  and  Jack  moved  reluctantly.  He  knew  the 
time  of  day  as  well  as  the  boy.  He  made  this  round  after  distinct 
protest. 

In  the  meantime  Julia,  putting  on  her  shoes  and  stockings,  went 
to  the  fence  and  watched  the  man's  shining  white  shirt  as  he 
moved  across  the  corn-field.  There  had  never  been  any  special 
tenderness  between  them,  but  she  had  always  liked  him.  They 
had  been  at  school  together.  She  wondered  why  he  had  come 
back  at  this  time  of  the  year,  and  wondered  how  long  he  would 
stay.  How  long  had  he  stood  looking  at  her?  She  flushed  again 
at  the  thought  of  it.  But  he  wasn't  to  blame ;  it  was  a  public 
road.     She  might  have  known  better. 

She  stood  under  a  little  popple  tree,  whose  leaves  shook  musi- 
cally at  every  zephyr,  and  her  eyes,  through  half-shut  lids,  roved 
over  the  sea  of  deep-green,  glossy  leaves,  dappled  here  and  there 
by  cloud  shadows,  stirred  here  and  there  like  water  by  the  wind ; 
and  out  of  it  all  a  longing  to  be  free  from  such  toil  rose  like  a 
breath,  filling  her  throat  and  quickening  the  motion  of  her  heart. 
Must  this  go  on  forever,  this  life  of  heat  and  dust  and  labor? 
What  did  it  all  mean? 

The  girl  laid  her  chin  on  her  strong  red  wrists,  and  looked  up 
into  the  blue  spaces  between  the  vast  clouds  —  aerial  mountains 
dissolving  in  a  shoreless  azure  sea.  How  cool  and  sweet  and  rest- 
ful they  looked  !  If  she  might  only  lie  out  on  the  billowy,  snow- 
white,  sunlit  edge  !  The  voices  of  the  driver  and  the  ploughrnan 
recalled  her,  and  she  fixed  her  eyes  again  upon  the  slowly  nodding 
head  of  the  patient  horse,  on  the  boy  turned  half  about  on  his 
saddle,  talking  to  the  white-sleeved  man,  whose  derby  hat  bobbed 
up  and  down  quite  curiously,  like  the  horse's  head.  Would  she 
ask  him  to  dinner  ?     What  would  her  people  say? 


96  AMONG    THE    CORN-ROWS 

"  Phew  !  it's  hot ! "  was  the  greeting  the  young  fellow  gave  as 
he  came  up.  He  smiled  in  a  frank,  boyish  way,  as  •  he  hung  his 
hat  on  the  top  of  a  stake  and  looked  up  at  her.  "  D'  y'  know,  I 
kind  o'  enjoy  gettin'  at  it  again?  Fact.  It  ain't  no  work  for  a 
girl,  though,"  he  added. 

"  When  'd  you  get  back?"  she  asked,  the  flush  not  yet  out  of 
her  face.  Rob  was  looking  at  her  thick,  fine  hair  and  full  Scan- 
dinavian face,  rich  as  a  rose  in  color,  and  did  not  reply  for  a  few 
seconds.  She  stood  with  her  hideous  sun-bonnet  pushed  back  on 
her  shoulders.     A  kingbird  was  chattering  overhead. 

"  Oh,  a  few  days  ago." 

"  How  long  y'  goin'  t'  stay?  " 

"  Oh,  I  d'  know.     A  week,  mebbe." 

A  far-off  halloo  came  pulsing  across  the  shimmering  air.  The 
boy  screamed  "  Dinner  !  "  and  waved  his  hat  with  an  answering 
whoop,  then  flopped  off  the  horse  like  a  turtle  off  a  stone  into 
water.  He  had  the  horse  unhooked  in  an  instant,  and  had  flung 
his  toes  up  over  the  horse's  back,  in  act  to  climb  on,  when  Rob 
said  : 

"  H'yare,  young  feller  !  wait  a  minute.  Tired?  "  he  asked  the 
girl,  with  a  tone  that  was  more  than  kindly.  It  was  almost 
tender. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  in  a  low  voice.     "  My  shoes  hurt  me." 

"Well,  here  y'  go,"  he  replied,  t^aking  his  stand  by  the  horse, 
and  holding  out  his  hand  hke  a  step.  She  colored  and  smiled  a 
little  as  she  lifted  her  foot  into  his  huge,  hard,  sunburned  hand. 

"  Oop-a-daisy  !  "  he  called.  She  gave  a  spring,  and  sat  on  the 
horse  like  one  at  home  there. 

Rob  had  a  deliciously  unconscious,  abstracted,  business-like  air. 
He  really  left  her  nothing  to  do  but  enjoy  his  company,  while  he 
went  ahead  and  did  precisely  as  he  pleased. 

"  We  don't  raise  much  corn  out  there,  an'  so  I  kind  o'  like  to 
see  it  once  more." 

"  I  wish  I  didn't  have  to  see  another  hill  of  corn  as  long  as  I 
live  !  "  replied  the  girl,  bitterly. 

"  Don't  know  as  I  blame  yeh  a  bit.  But,  all  the  same,  I'm  glad 
you  was  working  in  it  to-day,"  he  thought  to  himself,  as  he  walked 
beside  her  horse  toward  the  house. 


HAMLIN  GARLAND  97 

"  Will  you  stop  to  dinner?  "  she  inquired  bluntly,  almost  surlily. 
It  was  evident  there  were  reasons  why  she  didn't  mean  to  press 
him  to  do  so. 

"You  bet  I  will,"  he  replied  ;  "  that  is,  if  you  want  I  should." 

"You  know  how  we  live,"  she  replied  evasively.  "  If  you  can 
stand  it,  why  —  "     She  broke  off  abruptly. 

Yes,  he  remembered  how  they  lived  in  that  big,  square,  dirty, 
white  frame  house.  It  had  been  three  or  four  years  since  he  had 
been  in  it,  but  the  smell  of  the  cabbage  and  onions,  the  penetrat- 
ing, peculiar  mixture  of  odors,  assailed  his  memory  as  something 
unforgettable. 

"  I  guess  I'll  stop,"  he  said,  as  she  hesitated.  She  said  no  more, 
but  tried  to  act  as  if  she  were  not  in  any  way  responsible  for  what 
came  afterward. 

"  I  guess  I  c'n  stand  f  r  one  meal  what  you  stand  all  the  while," 
he  added. 

As  she  left  them  at  the  well  and  went  to  the  house,  he  saw  her 
limp  painfully,  and  the  memory  of  her  face  so  close  to  his  lips  as 
he  helped  her  down  from  the  horse  gave  him  pleasure  at  the  same 
time  that  he  was  touched  by  its  tired  and  gloomy  look.  Mrs. 
Peterson  came  to  the  door  of  the  kitchen,  looking  just  the  same 
as  ever.  Broad-faced,  unwieldy,  flabby,  apparently  wearing  the 
same  dress  he  remembered  to  have  seen  her  in  years  before,  —  a 
dirty,  drab-colored  thing, — she  looked  as  shapeless  as  a  sack  of 
wool.     Her  English  was  limited  to,  "  How  de  do,  Rob?  " 

He  washed  at  the  pump,  while  the  girl,  in  the  attempt  to  be 
hospitable,  held  the  clean  towel  for  him. 

"  You're  purty  well  used  up,  eh  ?  "  he  said  to  her. 

"Yes  ;  it's  awful  hot  out  there." 

"  Can't  you  lay  off  this  afternoon?     It  ain't  right." 

"  No.     He  won't,  listen  to  that." 

"Well,  let  me  take  your  place." 

"  No  ;  there  ain't  any  use  o'  that." 

Peterson,  a  brawny,  wide-bearded  Norwegian,  came  up  at  this 
moment,  and  spoke  to  Rob  in  a  sullen,  gruff  way. 

"  Hallo,  whan  yo'  gaet  back?" 

"To-day.     He  ain't  very  glad  to  see  me,"  said  Rob,  winking  at 
Julia.     "  He  ain't  b'ilin'  over  with  enthusiasm  ;  but  I  c'n  stand  it, 
II 


98  AMONG    THE    CORN-ROWS 

for  your  sake,"  he  added,  with  amazing  assurance;  but  the  girl  had 
turned  away,  and  it  was  wasted. 

At  the  table  he  ate  heartily  of  the  "  bean  swaagen,"  which  filled 
a  large  wooden  bowl  in  the  centre  of  the  table,  and  which  was 
ladled  into  smaller  wooden  bowls  at  each  plate.  Julia  had  tried 
hard  to  convert  her  mother  to  Yankee  ways,  and  had  at  last  given 
it  up  in  despair.  Rob  kept  on  safe  subjects,  mainly  asking  ques- 
tions about  the  crops  of  Peterson,  and  when  addressing  the  girl, 
inquired  of  the  schoolmates.  By  skilful  questioning,  he  kept  the 
subject  of  marriage  uppermost,  and  seemingly  was  getting  an 
inventory  of  the  girls  not  yet  married  or  engaged. 

It  was  embarrassing  for  the  girl.  She  was  all  too  well  aware  of 
the  difference  between  her  home  and  the  home  of  her  schoolmates 
and  friends.  She  knew  that  it  was  not  pleasant  for  her  "  Yankee  " 
friends  to  come  to  visit  her  when  they  could  not  feel  sure  of  a 
welcome  from  the  tireless,  silent,  and  grim-visaged  old  Norse,  if, 
indeed,  they  could  escape  insult.  Julia  ate  her  food  mechanically, 
and  it  could  hardly  be  said  that  she  enjoyed  the  brisk  talk  of  the 
young  man,  his  eyes  were  upon  her  so  constantly  and  his  smile 
so  obviously  addressed  to  her.  She  rose  as  soon  as  possible  and, 
going  outside,  took  a  seat  on  a  chair  under  the  trees  in  the  yard. 
She  was  not  a  coarse  or  dull  girl.  In  fact,  she  had  developed  so 
rapidly  by  contact  with  the  young  people  of  the  neighborhood, 
that  she  no  longer  found  pleasure  in  her  own  home.  She  didn't 
believe  in  keeping  up  the  old-fashioned  Norwegian  customs,  and 
her  hfe  with  her  mother  was  not  one  to  breed  love  or  confidence. 
She  was  more  like  a  hired  hand.  The  love  of  the  mother  for  her 
"  Yulyie  "  was  sincere  though  rough  and  inarticulate,  and  it  was  her 
jealousy  of  the  young  "Yankees  "  that  widened  the  chasm  between 
the  girl  and  herself —  an  inevitable  result. 

Rob  followed  the  girl  out  into  the  yard,  and  threw  himself  on 
the  grass  at  her  feet,  perfectly  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  this 
attitude  was  exceedingly  graceful  and  becoming  to  them  both. 
He  did  it  because  he  wanted  to  talk  to  her,  and  the  grass  was 
cool  and  easy ;  there  wasn't  any  other  chair,  anyway. 

"Do  they  keep  up  the  ly-ceum  and  the  sociables  same  as 
ever?" 

Yes.     The  others  go  a  good  'eal,  but  I  don't.     We're  gettirf 


a 


HAMLIN  GARLAND  gC, 

such  a  stock  round  us,  and  father  thinks  he  needs  me  s'  much,  I 
don't  get  out  often.     I'm  gettin'  sick  of  it." 

"  I  sh'd  think  y'  would,"  he  repHed,  his  eyes  on  her  face. 

"  I  c'd  stand  the  churnin'  and  housework,  but  when  it  comes  t' 
workin'  outdoors  in  the  dirt  an'  hot  sun,  gettin'  all  sunburned  and 
chapped  up,  it's  another  thing.  An'  then  it  seems  as  if  he  gets 
stingier  'n'  stingier  every  year.  I  ain't  had  a  new  dress  in  —  I 
d'-know-how-long.  He  says  it's  all  nonsense,  an'  mother's  just 
about  as  bad.  S/ie  don't  want  a  new  dress,  an'  so  she  thinks  I 
don't."  The  girl  was  feeling  the  influence  of  a  sympathetic  hs- 
tener  and  was  making  up  for  the  long  silence.  "  I've  tried  t'  go 
out  t'  work,  but  they  won't  let  me.  They'd  have  t'  pay  a  hand 
twenty  dollars  a  month  f'r  the  work  I  do,  an'  they  like  cheap  help  ; 
but  I'm  not  goin'  t'  stand  it  much  longer,  I  can  tell  you  that." 

Rob  thought  she  was  very  handsome  as  she  sat  there  with  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  horizon,  while  these  rebellious  thoughts  found 
utterance  in  her  quivering,  passionate  voice. 

"  Yulie  !     Kom  haar  !  "  roared  the  old  man  from  the  well. 

A  frown  of  anger  and  pain  came  into  her  face.  She  looked  at 
Rob.     "  That  means  more  work." 

"  Say  !  let  me  go  out  in  your  place.  Come,  now ;  what's  the 
use  —  " 

"  No  ;  it  wouldn't  do  no  good.  It  ain't  t'-day  s'  much ;  it's 
every  day,  and  —  " 

"Yn/i'e/"  called  Peterson  again,  with  a  string  of  impatient 
Norwegian.     "Batter  yo'  kom  pooty  hal  quick." 

"  Well,  all  right,  only  I'd  like  to  —  "  Rob  submitted. 

"Well,  good-by,"  she  said,  with  a  little  touch  of  feeling. 
"When  d'  ye  go  back?" 

"  I  don't  know.     I'll  see  y'  again  before  I  go.     Good-by." 

He  stood  watching  her  slow,  painful  pace  till  she  reached  the 
well,  where  Otto  was  standing  with  the  horse.  He  stood  watch- 
ing them  as  they  moved  out  into  the  road  and  turned  down 
toward  the  field.  He  felt  that  she  had  sent  him  away;  but  still 
there  was  a  look  in  her  eyes  which  was  not  altogether  — 

He  gave  it  up  in  despair  at  last.  He  was  not  good  at  analyses 
of  this  nature  ;  he  was  used  to  plain,  blunt  expressions.  There 
was  a  woman's  subtlety  here  quite  beyond  his  reach. 


100  AMONG    THE    CORN-ROWS 

c 

He  sauntered  slowly  off  up  the  road  after  his  talk  with  Julia. 
His  head  was  low  on  his  breast ;  he  was  thinking  as  one  who  is 
about  to  take  a  decided  and  important  step. 

He  stopped  at  length,  and,  turning,  watched  the  girl  moving 
along  in  the  deeps  of  the  corn.  Hardly  a  leaf  was  stirring ;  the 
untempered  sunlight  fell  in  a  burning  flood  upon  the  field ;  the 
grasshoppers  rose,  snapped,  buzzed,  and  fell ;  the  locust  uttered 
its  dry,  heat-intensifying  cry.     The  man  lifted  his  head. 

"  It's  a  d — n  shame  !  "  he  said,  beginning  rapidly  to  retrace  his 
steps.  He  stood  leaning  on  the  fence,  awaiting  the  girl's  coming 
very  much  as  she  had  waited  his  on  the  round  he  had  made  before 
dinner.  He  grew  impatient  at  the  slow  gait  of  the  horse,  and 
drummed  on  the  rail  while  he  whistled.  Then  he  took  off  his  hat 
and  dusted  it  nervously.  As  the  horse  got  a  little  nearer  he 
wiped  his  face  carefully,  pushed  his  hat  back  on  his  head,  and 
climbed  over  the  fence,  where  he  stood  with  elbows  on  the  middle 
rail  as  the  girl  and  boy  and  horse  came  to  the  end  of  the  furrow. 

"  Hot,  ain't  it?  "  he  said,'  as  she  looked  up. 

"Jimminy  Peters,  it's  awful!"  puffed  the  boy.  The  girl  did 
not  reply  till  she  swung  the  plough  about  after  the  horse,  and  set 
it  upright  into  the  next  row.  Her  powerful  body  had  a  superb 
swaying  motion  at  the  waist  as  she  did  this  —  a  motion  which 
affected  Rob  vaguely  but  massively. 

"  I  thought  you'd  gone,"  she  said  gravely,  pushing  back  her 
bonnet  till  he  could  see  her  face  dewed  with  sweat,  and  pink  as  a 
rose.  She  had  the  high  cheek-bones  of  her  race,  but  she  had  also 
their  exquisite  fliirness  of  color. 

"Say,  Otto,"  asked  Rob,  alluringly,  ''wan'  to  go  swimmin'?" 

"You  bet,"  repUed  Otto. 

"  Well,  I'll  go  a  round  if— " 

The  boy  dropped  off  the  horse,  not  waiting  to  hear  any  more. 
Rob  grinned,  but  the  girl  dropped  her  eyes,  then  looked  away. 

"  Got  rid  o'  him  mighty  quick.  Say,  Julyie,  I  hate  like  thunder 
t'  see  you  out  here  ;  it  ain't  right.     I  wish  you'd  —  I  wish  —  " 

She  could  not  look  at  him  now,  and  her  bosom  rose  and  fell 
with  a  motion  that  was  not  due  to  fatigue.  Her  moist  hair  matted 
around  her  forehead  gave  her  a  boyish  look. 

R(jb    nervously  tried    again,  tearing  splinters    from    the  fence. 


HAMLIN  GARLAND  10 1 

"Say,  now,  I'll  tell  yeh  what  I  came  back  here  for  —  t'  git 
married  ;  and  if  you're  willin',  I'll  do  it  to-night.  Come,  now, 
whaddy  y'  say?  ". 

"What've  /  got  t'  do  'bout  it?"  she  finally  asked,  the  color 
flooding  her  face,  and  a  faint  smile  coming  to  her  lips.  "  Go 
ahead.     I  ain't  got  anything  —  " 

Rob  put  a  splinter  ui  his  mouth  and  faced  her,  "  Oh,  looky 
here,  now,  Julyie  !  you  know  what  I  mean.  I've  got  a  good  claim 
out  near  Boomtown  —  a  rattlin''  good  claim  ;  a  shanty  on  it  four- 
teen by  sixteen  —  no  tarred  paper  about  it,  and  a  suller  to  keep 
butter  in,  and  a  hundred  acres  o'  wheat  just  about  ready  to  turn 
now.     I  need  a  wife." 

Here  he  straightened  up,  threw  away  the  splinter,  and  took  off 
his  hat.  He  was  a  very  pleasant  figure  as  the  girl  stole  a  look  at 
him.  His  black  laughing  eyes  were  especially  earnest  just  now. 
His  voice  had  a  touch  of  pleading.  The  popple  tree  over  their 
heads  murmured  applause  at  his  eloquence,  then  hushed  to  listen. 
A  cloud  dropped  a  silent  shadow  down  upon  them,  and  it  sent  a 
little  thrill  of  fear  through  Rob,  as  if  it  were  an  omen  of  failure. 
As  the  girl  remained  silent,  looking  away,  he  began,  man-fashion, 
to  desire  her  more  and  more,  as  he  feared  to  lose  her.  He  put 
his  hat  on  the  post  again  and  took  out  his  jack-knife.  Her  calico 
dress  draped  her  supple  and  powerful  figure  simply  but  naturally. 
The  stoop  in  her  shoulders,  given  by  labor,  disappeared  as  she 
partly  leaned  upon  the  fence.  The  curves  of  her  muscular  arms 
showed  tlirough  her  sleeve. 

"  It's  all-fired  lonesome  f  r  me  out  there  on  that  claim,  and  it 
ain't  no  picnic  f  r  you  here.  Now,  if  you'll  come  out  there  with 
me,  you  needn't  do  anything  but  cook  f  r  me,  and  after  harvest 
we  can  git  a  good  layout  o'  furniture,  an'  I'll  lath  and  plaster  the 
house  and  put  a  little  hell  [ell]  in  the  rear."  He  smiled,  and  so 
did  she.  He  felt  encouraged  to  say  :  "  An'  there  we  be,  as  snug 
as  y'  please.  We're  close  t'  Boomtown,  an'  we  can  go  down  there 
to  church  sociables  an'  things,  and  they're  a  jolly  lot  there." 

The  girl  was  still  silent,  but  the  man's  simple  enthusiasm  came 
to  her  charged  with  passion  and  a  sort  of  romance  such  as  her 
hard  fife  had  known  little  of.  There  was  something  enticing  about 
this  trip  to  the  West. 


102  AMONG    THE    CORN-ROWS 

"  What '11  my  folks  say?  "  she  said  at  last. 

A  virtual  surrender,  but  Rob  was  not  acute  enough  to  see  it, 
He  pressed  on  eagerly  : 

"I  don't  care.  Do  you?  They'll  jest  keep  y'  ploughin'  corn 
and  milkin'  cows  till  the  day  of  judgment.  Come,  Julyie,  I  ain't 
got  no  time  to  fool  away.  I've  got  t'  get  back  t'  that  grain.  It's 
a  whoopin'  old  crop,  sure's  y'r  born,  an'  that  means  sompin'  purty 
scrumptious  in  furniture  this  fall.  Come,  now."  He  approached 
her  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  very  much  as  he  would  have 
touched  Albert  Seagraves  or  any  other  comrade.  "Whaddy  y' 
say?" 

She  neither  started  nor  shrunk  nor  looked  at  him.  She  simply 
moved  a  step  away.  "  They'd  never  let  me  go,"  she  replied  bit- 
terly. "  I'm  too  cheap  a  hand.  I  do  a  man's  work  an'  get  no 
pay  at  all." 

"You'll  have  half  o'  all  I  c'n  make,"  he  put  in. 

"  How  long  c'n  you  wait  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  down  at  her 
dress. 

"  Just  two  minutes,"  he  said,  pulling  out  his  watch.  "  It  ain't 
no  use  t'  wait.  The  old  man'U  be  jest  as  mad  a  week  from  now 
as  he  is  to-day.     Why  not  go  now?" 

"  I'm  of  age  in  a  few  days,"  she  mused,  wavering,  calculating. 

"  You  c'n  be  of  age  to-night  if  you'll  jest  call  on  old  Squire 
Hatfield  with  me." 

"  All  right,  Rob,"  the  girl  said,  turning  and  holding  out  her  hand. 

"  That's  the  talk  !  "  he  exclaimed,  seizing  it.  "  And  now  a 
kiss,  to  bind  the  bargain,  as  the  fellah  says." 

"  I  guess  we  c'n  get  along  without  that." 

"  No,  we  can't.     It  won't  seem  like  an  engagement  without  it." 

"  It  ain't  goin'  to  seem  much  like  one,  anyway,"  she  answered, 
with  a  sudden  realization  of  how  far  from  her  dreams  of  courtship 
this  reality  was. 

"  Say,  now,  Julyie,  that  ain't  fair  ;  it  ain't  treatin'  me  right. 
You  don't  seem  to  understand  that  I  ///'<?  you,  but  I  do." 

Rob  was  carried  quite  out  of  himself  by  the  time,  the  place, 
and  the  girl.     He  had  said  a  very  moving  thing. 

The  tears  sprang  involuntarily  to  the  girl's  eyes.  "  Do  you 
mean  it?     If  y'  do,  you  may." 


HAMLIN  GARLAND  I03 

She  was  trembling  with  emotion  for  the  first  time.  The  sin- 
cerity of  the  man's  voice  had  gone  deep. 

He  put  his  arm  around  her  ahnost  timidly,  and  kissed  her  on 
the  cheek,  a  great  love  for  her  springing  up  in  his  heart.  "  That 
setdes  it,"  he  said.  "  Don't  cry,  Julyie,  You'll  never  be  sorry 
for  it.     Don't  cry.     It  kind  o'  hurts  me  to  see  it." 

He  hardly  understood  her  feehngs.  He  was  only  aware  that 
she  was  crying,  and  tried  in  a  bungling  way  to  soothe  her.  But 
now  that  she  had  given  way,  she  sat  down  in  the  grass  and  wept 
bitterly. 

"Yulyier^  yelled  the  vigilant  old  Norwegian,  like  a  distant 
foghorn. 

The  girl  sprang  up  ;  the  habit  of  obedience  was  strong. 

"  No  ;  you  set  right  there,  and  I'll  go  round,"  he  said.     ^'Otio  !  " 

The  boy  came  scrambling  out  of  the  wood,  half  dressed.  Rob 
tossed  him  upon  the  horse,  snatched  Julia's  sun-bonnet,  put  his 
own  hat  on  her  head,  and  moved  off  down  the  corn-rows,  leaving 
the  girl  smiling  through  her  tears  as  he  whistled  and  chirped 
to  the  horse.  Farmer  Peterson,  seeing  the  familiar  sun-bonnet 
above  the  corn -rows,  went  back  to  his  work,  with  a  sentence  of 
Norwegian  trailing  after  him  like  the  tail  of  a  kite  —  something 
about  lazy  girls  who  didn't  earn-  the  crust  of  their  bread,  etc. 

Rob  was  wild  with  delight.  "  Git  up  there.  Jack  !  Hay,  you 
old  corncrib  !  Say,  Otto,  can  you  keep  your  mouth  shet  if  it  puts 
money  in  your  pocket?  " 

"  Jeat  try  me  'n'  see,"  said  the  keen-eyed  httle  scamp. 

"  Well,  you  keep  quiet  about  my  bein'  here  this  afternoon,  and 
I'll  put  a  dollar  on  y'r  tongue  —  hay  ?  —  what  ?  —  understand  ?  " 

"  Show  me  y'r  dollar,"  said  the  boy,  turning  about  and  showing 
his  tongue. 

"  All  right.     Begin  to  practise  now  by  not  talkin'  to  me." 

Rob  went  over  the  whole  situation  on  his  way  back,  and  when 
he  got  in  sight  of  the  girl  his  plan  was  made.  She  stood  waiting 
for  him  with  a  new  look  on  her  face.  Her  sullenness  had  given 
way  to  a  peculiar  eagerness  and  anxiety  to  believe  in  him.  She 
was  already  living  that  free  life  in  a  far-off,  wonderful  country.  No 
more  would  her  stern  father  and  sullen  mother  force  her  to  tasks 
which  she  hated.     She'd  be  a  member   of  a   new  firm.     She'd 


104  AMONG    THE    CORN-ROWS 

work,  of  course,  but  it  would  be  because  she  wanted  to,  and  not 
because  she  was  forced  to.  The  independence  and  the  love 
promised  grew  more  and  more  attractive.  She  laughed  back  with 
a  softer  light  in  her  eyes,  when  she  saw  the  smiling  face  of  Rob 
looking  at  her  from  her  sun-bonnet. 

"Now  you  mustn't  do  any  more  o'  this,"  he  said.  "You  go 
back  to  the  house  an'  tell  y'r  mother  you're  too  lame  to  plough 
any  more  to-day,  and  it's  gettin'  late,  anyhow.  To-night !  "  he 
whispered  quickly.     "  Eleven  !     Here  !  " 

The  girl's  heart  leaped  with  fear.     "  I'm  afraid." 

"  Not  o{  me,  are  yeh?" 

"  No,  I'm  not  afraid  of  you,  Rob." 

"  I'm  glad  o'  that.  I  —  I  want  you  —  to  like  me,  Julyie  ;  won't 
you?" 

"  I'll  try,"  she  answered,  with  a  smile. 

"To-night,  then,"  he  said,  as  she  moved  away. 

"  To-night.     Good-by." 

"  Good-by." 

He  stood  and  watched  her  till  her  fall  figure  was  lost  among 
the  drooping  corn-leaves.  There  was  a  singular  choking  feeling 
in  his  throat.  The  girl's  voice  and  face  had  brought  up  so  many 
memories  of  parties  and  picnics  and  excursions  on  far-off  holidays, 
and  at  the  same  time  held  suggestions  of  the  future.  He  already 
felt  that  it  was  going  to  be  an  unconscionably  long  time  before 
eleven  o'clock. 

He  saw  her  go  to  the  house,  and  then  he  turned  and  walked 
slowly  up  the  dusty  road.  Out  of  the  May-weed  the  grasshoppers 
sprang,  buzzing  and  snapping  their  dull  red  wings.  Butterflies, 
yellow  and  white,  fluttered  around  moist  places  in  the  ditch,  and 
slender,  striped  water-snakes  glided  across  the  stagnant  pools  at 
sound  of  footsteps. 

But  the  mind  of  the  man  was  far  away  on  his  claim,  building  a 
new  house,  with  a  woman's  advice  and  presence. 

******* 

It  was  a  windless  night.  The  katydids  and  an  occasional  cricket 
were  the  only  sounds  Rob  could  hear  as  he  stood  beside  his  team 
and  strained  his  ear  to  listen.  At  long  intervals  a  little  breeze 
ran  through  the  corn  like  a  swift  serpent,  bringing  to   his  nostrils 


HAMLIN  GARLAND  I05 

the  sappy  smell  of  the  growing  corn.  The  horses  stamped  un- 
easily as  the  mosquitoes  settled  on  their  shining  hmbs.  The  sky 
was  full  of  stars,  but  there  was  no  moon. 

"  What  if  she  don't  come?  "  he  thought.  "  Or  can't  come?  I 
can't  stand  that.  I'll  go  to  the  old  man  an'  say,  '  Looky  here  — ' 
Sh!" 

He  listened  again.  There  was  a  rustling  in  the  corn.  It  was 
not  like  the  fitful  movement  of  the  wind  ;  it  was  steady,  slower, 
and  approaching.  It  ceased.  He  whistled  the  waihng  sweet  cry 
of  the  prairie-chicken.  Then  a  figure  came  out  into  the  road  — 
a  woman  —  Julia  ! 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  as  she  came  panting  up  to  him. 

"  Rob  ! " 

"Julyie!" 

^ft  ^|f  t}*  vlt  vj?  ^  tI? 

A  few  words,  the  dull  tread  of  swift  horses,  the  rising  of  a  silent 
train  of  dust,  and  then  —  the  wind  wandered  in  the  growing  corn, 
the  dust  fell,  a  dog  barked  down  the  road,  and  the  katydids  sang 
to  the  liquid  contralto  of  the  river  in  its  shallows. 


THE    LAD    IN    THE    HEMP-FIELD 

JAMES   LANE  ALLEN 
[From   The  Reign  of  Law,  1900.] 

Some  sixty-five  years  later,  one  hot  day  of  midsummer  in  1865 
—  one  Saturday  afternoon  —  a  lad  was  cutting  weeds  in  a  wood- 
land pasture  ;  a  big,  raw-boned,  demure  boy  of  near  eighteen. 

He  had  on  heavy  shoes,  the  toes  green  with  grass  stain  ;  the 
leather  so  seasoned  by  morning  dews  as  to  be  hke  wood  for  hard- 
ness. These  were  to  keep  his  feet  protected  from  briers  or  from 
the  bees  scattered  upon  the  wild  white  clover  or  from  the  terrible 
hidden  thorns  of  the  honey-locust.  No  socks.  A  pair  of  scant 
homespun  trousers,  long  outgrown.  A  coarse  clean  shirt.  His  big 
shock-head  thatched  with  yellow  straw,  a  dilapidated  sun-and-rain 
shed. 


I06  THE  LAD  IN   THE   HEMP-FIELD 

The  lanky  young  giant  cut  and  cut  and  cut :  great  purple-bodied 
poke,  strung  with  crimson-juiced  seed ;  great  burdock,  its  green 
burrs  a  plague  ;  great  milkweed,  its  creamy  sap  gushing  at  every 
gash ;  great  thistles,  thousand-nettled ;  great  ironweed,  plumed 
with  royal  purple ;  now  and  then  a  straggling  bramble  prone  with 
velvety  berries  —  the  outpost  of  a  patch  behind  him;  now  and 
then  —  more  carefully,  lest  he  notch  his  blade  —  low  sprouts  of 
wild  cane,  survivals  of  the  impenetrable  brakes  of  pioneer  days. 
All  these  and  more,  the  rank,  mighty  measure  of  the  soil's  fertility 

—  low  down. 

Measure  of  its  fertility  aloft,  the  tops  of  the  trees,  from  which 
the  call  of  the  red-headed  woodpecker  sounded  as  faint  as  the 
memory  of  a  sound  and  the  bark  of  the  squirrels  was  elfin-thin. 
A  hot  crowded  land,  crammed  with  undergrowth  and  overgrowth 
wherever  a  woodland  stood  ;  and  around  every  woodland  dense 
corn-fields ;  or,  denser  still,  the  leagues  of  swaying  hemp.  The 
smell  of  this  now  lay  heavy  on  the  air,  seeming  to  be  dragged 
hither  and  thither  like  a  slow  scum  on  the  breeze,  like  a  moss  on 
a  sluggish  pond.     A  deep  robust  land  ;  and  among  its  growths  he 

—  this  lad,  in  his  way  a  self-unconscious  human  weed,  the  seed  of 
his  kind  borne  in  from  far  some  generations  back,  but  springing 
out  of  the  soil  naturally  now,  sap  of  its  sap,  strength  of  its  strength. 

He  paused  by  and  by  and  passed  his  forefinger  across  his  fore- 
head, brushing  the  sweat  away  from  above  his  quiet  eyes.  He 
moistened  the  tip  of  his  thumb  and  slid  it  along  the  blade  of  his 
hemp  hook  —  he  was  using  that  for  lack  of  a  scythe.  Turning,  he 
walked  back  to  the  edge  of  the  brier  thicket,  sat  down  in  the 
shade  of  a  black  walnut,  threw  off  his  tattered  head-gear,  and, 
reaching  for  his  bucket  of  water  covered  with  poke  leaves,  lifted 
it  to  his  lips  and  drank  deeply,  gratefully.  Then  he  drew  a  whet- 
stone from  his  pocket,  spat  on  it,  and  fell  to  sharpening  his  blade. 

The  heat  of  his  work,  the  stifling  air,  the  many-toned  woods, 
the  sense  of  the  vast  summering  land  —  these  things  were  not  in 
his  thoughts.  Some  days  before,  despatched  from  homestead  to 
"homestead,  rumors  had  reached  him  away  off  here  at  work  on  his 
father's  farm,  of  a  great  university  to  be  opened  the  following 
autumn  at  Lexington.  The  like  of  it  with  its  many  colleges  Ken- 
tucky, the  South,  the  Mississippi  valley,  had  never  seen.     It  had 


JAMES  LANE  ALLEN  10^ 

been  the  talk  among  the  farming  people  in  their  harvest  fields,  at 
the  cross-roads,  on  their  porches  —  the  one  deep  sensation  among 
them  since  the  war. 

For  solemn,  heart-stirring  as,  such  tidings  would  have  been  at 
any  other  time,  more  so  at  this.  Here,  on  the  tableland  of  this 
unique  border  state,  Kentucky  —  between  the  halves  of  the  nation 
lately  at  strife  —  scene  of  their  advancing  and  retreating  armies  — 
pit  of  a  frenzied  commonwealth  —  here  was  to  arise  this  calm 
university,  pledge  of  the  new  times,  plea  for  the  peace  and  amity 
of  learning,  fresh  chance  for  study  of  the  revelation  of  the  Lord 
of  Hosts  and  God  of  battles.  The  animosities  were  over,  the 
humanities  rebegun. 

Can  you  remember  your  youth  well  enough  to  be  able  to  recall 
the  time  when  the  great  things  happened  for  which  you  seemed 
to  be  waiting?  The  boy  who  is  to  be  a  soldier  —  one  day  he 
hears  a  distant  bugle  :  at  once  he  knows.  A  second  glimpses  a 
bellying  sail :  straightway  the  ocean  path  beckons  to  him.  A 
third  discovers  a  college,  and  toward  its  kindly  lamps  of  learn- 
ing turns  young  eyes  that  have  been  kindled  and  will  stay  kindled 
to  the  end. 

For  some  years  this  particular  lad,  this  obscure  item  in  Nature's 
plan  which  always  passes  understanding,  had  been  growing  more 
unhappy  in  his  place  in  creation.  By  temperament  he  was  of  a 
type  the  most  joyous  and  self-reliant  —  those  sure  signs  of  health  ; 
and  discontent  now  was  due  to  the  fact  that  he  had  outgrown  his 
place. '(Parentage  —  a  farm  and  its  tasks  —  a  country  neighbor- 
hood and  its  narrowness — -what  more  are  these  sometimes  than 
a  starting-point  for  a  young  life ;  as  a  flower-pot  might  serve  to 
sprout  an  oak,  and  as  the  oak  would  inevitably  reach  the  hour 
when  it  would  either  die  or  burst  out,  root  and  branch,  into  the 
whole  heavens  and  the  earth ;  as  the  shell  and  yolk  of  an  egg  are 
the  starting-point  for  the  wing  and  eye  of  the  eagle.f  One  thing 
only  he  had  not  outgrown,  in  one  thing  only  he  was  not  unhappy  : 
his  religious  nature.  This  had  always  been  in  him  as  breath  was 
in  him,  as  blood  was  in  him  :  it  was  his  life.  Dissatisfied  now 
with  his  position  in  the  world,  it  was  this  alone  that  kept  him 
contented  in  himself.  Often  the  religious  are  the  weary ;  and 
perhaps    nowhere    else    does  a  perpetual  vision    of  Heaven    so 


I08  THE  MIRACLE    OF  THE  PEACH   TREE 

disclose  itself  to  the  weary  as  above  lonely  toiling  fields.  The  lad 
had  long  been  lifting  his  inner  eye  to  this  vision. 

When,  therefore,  the  tidings  of  the  university  with  its  Bible 
College  reached  him,  whose  outward  mould  was  hardship,  whose 
inner  bliss  Avas  piety,  at  once  they  fitted  his  ear  as  the  right 
sound,  as  the  gladness  of  long-awaited  intelligence.  It  was  bugle 
to  the  soldier,  sail  to  the  sailor,  lamp  of  learning  to  the  innate 
student.  At  once  he  knew  that  he  was  going  to  the  university  — 
sometime,  somehow  —  and  from  that  moment  felt  no  more  discon- 
tent, void,  restlessness,  nor  longing. 

It  was  of  this  university,  then,  that  he  was  happily  day-dream- 
ing as  he  whetted  his  hemp  hook  in  the  depths  of  the  woods  that 
Saturday  afternoon.  Sitting  low  amid  heat  and  weeds  and  thorns, 
he  was  already  as  one  who  had  climbed  above  the  earth's  eternal 
snow-line  and  sees  only  white  peaks  and  pinnacles  —  the  last 
sublimities. 

He  felt  impatient  for  to-morrow.  One  of  the  professors  of  the 
university,  of  the  faculty  of  the  Bible  College,  had  been  travelling 
over  the  state  during  the  summer,  pleading  its  cause  before  the 
people.  He  had  come  into  that  neighborhood  to  preach  and 
to  plead.     The  lad  would  be  there  to  hear. 

The  church  in  which  the  professor  was  to  plead  for  learning 
and  religion  was  the  one  first  set  up  in  the  Kentucky  wilderness 
as  a  house  of  religious  liberty ;  and  the  lad  was  a  great-grandchild 
of  the  founder  of  that  church,  here  emerging  mysteriously  from 
the  deeps  of  life  four  generations  down  the  line. 

THE  MIRACLE  OF  THE  PEACH  TREE 

MAURICE   HEWLETT 

[From  "  Madonna  of  the  Peach  Tree,"  in  Little  Novels  of  Italy,  1899.  Gio- 
vanna  Scarpa  of  Verona  has  been  slandered  and  ahiiost  mobbed  in  the  absence 
of  her  husband,  and  has  fled  from  the  city  with  her  baby  in  her  arms.] 

Directly  you  were  outside  the  Porta  San  Zeno  the  peach  trees 
began  —  acre  by  acre  of  bent  trunks,  whose  long  branches,  tied 
at  the  top,  took  shapes  of  blown  candle- flames  :  beyond  these 
was  an  open  waste  of  bents  and  juniper  scrub,  which  afforded 
certain  eatage  for  goats. 


J 

MAURICE  HEWLETT  IO9 

Here  three  herd-boys,  Luca,  Biagio,  and  Astorre,  simple  brown- 
skinned  souls,  watched  their  flocks  all  the  summer  night,  sleeping, 
waking  to  play  pranks  on  each  other,  whining  endless  doggerel, 
praying  at  every  scare,  and  swearing  at  every  reassurance.  Sim- 
ple, puppyish  folk  though  they  were,  Madonna  of  the  Peach  Tree 
chose  them  to  witness  her  epiphany. 

It  was  a  very  still  night,  of  wonderful  star-shine,  but  without 
a  moon.  The  stars  were  so  thickly  spread,  so  clear  and  hot,  that 
there  was  light  enough  for  the  lads  to  see  each  other's  faces,  the 
rough  shapes  of  each  other.  It  was  hght  enough  to  notice  how 
the  square  belfry  of  San  Zeno  cut  a  wedge  of  black  into  the  span- 
gled blue  vault.  Sheer  through  the  Milky  Way  it  ploughed  a 
broad  furrow,  which  ended  in  a  ragged  edge.  You  would  never 
have  seen  that  if  it  had  not  been  a  clear  night. 

Still  also  it  was.  You  heard  the  cropping  of  the  goats,  the 
jaws'  champ  when  they  chewed  the  crisp  leaves ;  the  flicker  of 
the  bats'  wings.  In  the  marsh,  half  a  mile  away,  the  chorus 
of  frogs,  when  it  swelled  up,  drowned  all  nearer  noise  ;  but  when 
it  broke  off  suddenly,  those  others  resumed  their  hold  upon  the 
stillness.  It  was  a  breathless  night  of  suspense.  Anything  might 
happen  on  such  a  night. 

Luca,  Biagio,  and  Astorre,  under  the  spell  of  this  marvellous 
night,  lay  on  their  stomachs  alert  for  alarms.  A  heavy-wheeling, 
white  owl  had  come  by  with  a  swish,  and  Biagio  had  called  aloud 
to  Madonna  in  his  agony.  Astorre  had  crossed  himself  over  and 
over  again  :  this  was  the  Angel  of  Death  cruising  abroad  on  the 
hunt  for  goats  or  goat-herds  ;  but  "  No,  no  !  "  cried  Luca,  eldest 
of  the  three,  "  the  wings  are  too  short,  friends.  That  is  a  fluffy 
new  soul  just  let  loose.  She  knows  not  the  way,  you  see.  Let  us 
pray  for  her.  There  are  devils  abroad  on  such  close  nights  as 
this." 

Pray  they  did,  with  a  will,  "x\ve  Maria,"  "O  maris  Stella,"  and 
half  the  Paternoster,  when  Biagio  burst  into  a  guffaw,  and  gave 
Luca  a  push  which  sent  Astorre  down. 

"  Why,  'tis  only  a  screech-owl,  you  fools  !  "  he  cried,  though 
the  sound  of  his  own  voice  made  him  falter ;  "  an  old  mouse- 
teaser,"  he  went  on  in  a  much  lower  voice.     "Who's  afraid  ?  " 

A  black  and  white  cat  making  a  pounce  had   sent  hearts  to 


no  THE  MIRACLE    OF  THE  PEACH   TREE 

mouths  after  this  :  though  they  found  her  out  before  they  had  got 
to  "  Dominus  tecum,"  she  left  them  all  in  a  quiver.  It  had  been 
a  cat,  but  it  might  have  been  the  devil.  Then,  before  the  bristles 
had  folded  down  on  their  backs,  they  rose  up  again,  and  the  hair 
of  their  heads  became  rigid  as  quills.  Over  the  brow  of  a  httle 
hill,  through  the  peach  trees  (which  bowed  their  spiry  heads  to 
her  as  she  walked),  came  quietly  a  tall  white  Lady  in  a  dark 
cloak.  Hey  !  powers  of  earth  and  air,  but  this  was  not  to  be 
doubted  !  Evenly  forward  she  came,  without  a  footfall,  without 
a  rustle  or  the  crackhng  of  a  twig,  without  so  much  as  kneeing 
her  skirt  —  stood  before  them  so  nearly  that  they  saw  the  pale 
oval  of  her  face,  and  said  in  a  voice  like  a  muffled  bell,  "  I  am 
hungry,  my  friends  ;  have  you  any  meat  ?  "  She  had  a  face  like 
the  moon,  and  great  round  eyes ;  within  her  cloak,  on  the  bosom 
of  her  white  dress,  she  held  a  man-child.  He,  they  passed  their 
sacred  word,  lifted  in  his  mother's  arms  and  turned  open-handed 
towards  them.  Luca,  Biagio,  and  Astorre,  goat-herds  all  and 
honest  lads,  fell  on  their  faces  with  one  accord  ;  with  one  voice 
they  cried,  "  Madonna,  Madonna,  Madonna  !  pray  for  us  sinners  !  " 

But  again  the  Lady  spoke  in  her  gentle  tones.  "  I  am  very 
hungry,  and  my  child  is  hungry.  Have  you  nothing  to  give  me?  " 
So  then  Luca  kicked  the  prone  Biagio,  and  Biagio's  heel  nicked 
Astorre  on  the  shin.  But  it  was  Luca,  as  became  the  eldest,  who 
got  up  first,  all  the  same  ;  and  as  soon  as  he  was  on  his  feet  the 
others  followed  him.  Luca  took  his  cap  off,  Biagio  saw  the  act 
and  followed  it.  Astorre,  who  dared  not  lift  his  eyes,  and  was  so 
busy  making  crosses  on  himself  that  he  had  no  hands  to  spare, 
kept  his  on  till  Luca  nudged  Biagio,  and  Biagio  cuffed  him  soundly, 
saying,  "Uncover,  cow-face." 

Then  Luca  on  his  knees  made  an  offering  of  cheese  and  black 
bread  to  the  Lady.  They  saw  the  gleam  of  her  white  hand  as  she 
stretched  it  out  to  take  the  victual.  That  hand  shone  like  agate 
in  the  dark.  They  saw  her  eat,  sitting  very  straight  and  noble  upon 
a  tussock  of  bents.  Astorre  whispered  to  Biagio,  Biagio  consulted 
with  Luca  for  a  few  anxious  moments,  and  communicated  again 
with  Astorre.  Astorre  jumped  up  and  scutded  away  into  the 
dark.  Presently  he  came  back,  bearing  something  in  his  two 
hands.     The  three  shock-heads  inspected  his  burden  \  there  was 


MAURICE  HEWLETT  III 

much  whispering,  some  contention,  ahnost  a  scuffle.  The  truth 
was,  that  Biagio  wanted  to  take  the  thing  from  Astorre,  and  that 
Luca  would  not  allow  it.  Luca  was  the  eldest,  and  wanted  to  take 
it  himself.  Astorre  was  in  tears.  "  Cristo  aniore  /  ^'' ^  he  blub- 
bered, "  you  will  spill  the  milk  between  you.  I  thought  of  it  all 
by  myself.  Let  go,  Biagio  ;  let  go,  Luca  !  "  So  they  whispered 
and  tussled,  pulling  three  different  ways.  The  Lady's  voice  broke 
over  them  like  silver  rain.  "  Let  him  who  thought  of  the  kind  act 
give  me  the  milk,"  she  said  ;  so  young  Astorre  on  his  knees  handed 
her  the  horn  cup,  and  through  the  cracks  of  his  fingers  watched 
her  drink  every  drop. 

That  done,  the  cup  returned  with  a  smile  piercingly  sweet,  the 
Lady  rose.  Saints  on  thrones,  how  tall  she  was  !  "  The  bimbo  ^ 
will  thank  you  for  this  to-morrow,  as  I  do  now,"  said  she.  "Good 
night,  my  friends,  and  may  the  good  God  have  mercy  upon  all 
souls  !  "  She  turned  to  go  the  way  she  had  come,  but  Astorre, 
covering  his  eyes  with  one  hand,  crept  forward  on  three  legs  (as 
you  might  say)  and  plucked  the  hem  of  her  robe  up,  and  kissed 
it.  She  stooped  to  lay  a  hand  upon  his  head.  "  Never  kiss  my 
robe,  Astorre,"  said  she  —  and  how  under  Heaven  did  she  know 
his  name  if  she  were  not  7c>/ia/  she  was  ?  —  "  Never  kiss  my  robe, 
but  get  up  and  let  me  kiss  you."  Well  of  Truth  !  to  think  of  it ! 
Up  gets  Astorre,  shaking  hke  a  nun  in  a  fit,  and  the  Lady  bent 
over  him  and,  as  sure  as  you  are  you,  kissed  his  forehead.  Astorre 
told  his  village  next  day  as  they  sat  round  him  in  a  ring,  and  he 
on  the  well-head  as  plain  to  be  seen  as  this  paper,  that  he  felt  at 
that  moment  as  if  two  rose  leaves  had  dropped  from  heaven  upon 
his  forehead.  Slowly,  then,  very  slowly  and  smoothly  (as  they 
report) ,  did  the  Lady  move  away  towards  the  peach  trees  whence 
she  had  come.  Li  the  half  light  there  was  —  for  by  this  it  was  the 
hour  before  dawn  —  they  saw  her  take  a  peach  from  one  of  the 
trees.  She  stayed  to  eat  it.  Then  she  walked  over  the  crest 
of  the  orchard  and  disappeared.  As  soon  as  they  dared,  when 
the  light  had  come,  they  looked  for  her  over  that  same  crest,  but 
could  see  nothing  whatever.  With  pale,  serious  faces  the  three 
youths  regarded  each  other.  There  was  no  doubt  as  to  what  had 
happened  —  a  miracle  !  a  miracle  ! 

1  [For  the  love  of  Christ.]  2  [Baby.] 


112  THE  MIRACLE    OF   THE  PEACH   TREE 

With  one  consent  then  —  since  this  was  plainly  a  Church  affair 

—  they  ran  to  their  parish  priest,  Don  Gasparo.  He  got  the  whole 
story  at  last ;  nothing  could  shake  them  ;  no  detail  was  wanting. 
Thus  it  was  :  the  Blessed  Virgin,  carrying  in  her  arms  the  Santis- 
simo  Bambino  Gesu,^  had  come  through  the  peach  trees,  asked 
for  and  eaten  of  their  food,  prayed  for  them  aloud  to  Messer 
Domeneddio  ^  himself,  and  kissed  Astorre  on  the  forehead.  As 
they  were  on  their  knees,  she  walked  away,  stopped,  took  a  peach, 
ate  it,  walked  on,  vanished  —  ecco  /  ^  —  The  curate  rubbed  his  head, 
and  tried  another  boy.  Useless  :  the  story  was  the  same.  Third 
boy,  same  story.  He  tucked  up  his  cassock  with  decision,  took 
his  biretta  and  walking-staff,  and  said  to  the  three  goat-herds  — 

"  My  lads,  all  this  is  matter  of  miracle.     I  do  not  deny  its  truth 

—  God  forbid  it  in  a  simple  man  such  as  I  am.  But  I  do  cer- 
tainly ask  you  to  lead  me  to  the  scene  of  your  labors." 

The  boys, needed  no  second  asking  :  off  they  all  set.  The  curate 
went  over  every  inch  of  the  ground.  Here  lay  Luca,  Biagio,  and 
Astorre  ;  the  belfry  of  San  Zeno  was  in  such  and  such  a  direction, 
the  peach  trees  in  such  and  such.  Good  :  there  they  were.  What 
next  ?  According  to  their  account.  Madonna  had  come  thus  and 
thus.  The  good  curate  bundled  off  to  spy  for  footprints  in  the 
orchard.  Marvel !  there  were  none.  This  made  him  look  very 
grave ;  for  if  she  made  no  earthly  footprints,  she  could  have  no 
earthly  feet.  Next  he  must  see  by  what  way  she  had  gone.  She 
left  them  kneeling  here,  said  they,  went  towards  the  peach  garden, 
stayed  by  a  certain  tree  (which  they  pointed  out),  plucked  a  peach 
from  the  very  top  of  it  —  this  they  swore  to,  though  the  tree  was 
near  fourteen  feet  high  —  stood  while  she  ate  it,  and  went  over  the 
brow  of  the  rising  ground.  Here  was  detail  enough,  it  is  to  be 
hoped.  The  curate  nosed  it  out  like  a  slot-hound ;  he  paced  the 
track  himself  from  the  scrub  to  the  peach  tree,  and  stood  under 
this  last  gazing  to  its  top,  from  there  to  its  roots ;  he  shook  his 
head  many  times,  stroked  his  chin  a  few  :  then  with  a  broken  cry 
he  made  a  pounce  and  picked  up  —  a  peach  stone  !  After  this 
to  doubt  would  have  been  childish ;  as  a  fact  he  had  no  more  than 
the  boys. 

"  My  children,"  said  he,  "  we  are  here  face  to  face  with  a  great 

1  [The  most  holy  child  Jesus.]  2  [God.]  3  [Behold  1] 


MAURICE  HEWLETT  '  II3 

mystery.  It  is  plain  that  Messer  Domeneddio  hath  designs  upon 
this  hamlet,  of  which  we,  His  worms,  have  no  conception.  You, 
my  dear  sons.  He  hath  chosen  to  be  workers  for  His  purpose, 
which  we  cannot  be  very  far  wrong  in  supposing  to  be  the  build- 
ing of  an  oratory  or  tabernacle  to  hold  this  unspeakable  relic. 
That  erection  must  be  our  immediate  anxious  care.  Meantime  I 
will  place  the  relic  in  the  pyx  of  our  Lady's  altar,  and  mark  the 
day  in  our  calendar  for  perpetual  remembrance.  I  shall  not  fail 
to  communicate  with  his  hoUness  the  bishop.  Who  knows  what 
may  be  the  end  of  this  ?  " 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  A  procession  was  formed  in  no 
time  —  children  carrying  their  rosaries  and  bunches  of  flowers, 
three  banners,  the  whole  village  with  a  candle  apiece  ;  next  Luca, 
Biagio,  and  Astorre  with  larger  candles  —  half  a  pound  weight 
each  at  the  least ;  then  four  men  to  hold  up  a  canopy,  below 
which  came  the  good  curate  himself  with  the  relic  on  a  cushion. 

It  was  deposited  with  great  reverence  in  the  place  devoted,  hav- 
ing been  drenched  with  incense.  There  was  a  solemn  mass.  After 
which  things  the  curate  thought  himself  at  liberty  to  ruffle  into 
Verona  with  his  news. 


A    DOG  AND    HIS    MASTER 

JACK  LONDON 
[From  The  Call  of  the  Wild,  1 903.] 

For  a  long  time  after  his  rescue.  Buck  did  not  like  Thornton  to 
get  out  of  his  sight.  From  the  moment  he  left  the  tent  to  when 
he  entered  it  again.  Buck  would  follow  at  his  heels.  His  transient 
masters  since  he  had  come  into  the  Northland  had  bred  in  him 
a  fear  that  no  master  could  be  permanent.  He  was  afraid  that 
Thornton  would  pass  out  of  his  life  as  Perrault  and  Frangois  and 
the  Scotch  half-breed  had  passed  out.  Even  in  the  night,  in  his 
dreams,  he  was  haunted  by  this  fear.  At  such  times  he  would 
shake  off  sleep  and  creep  through  the  chill  to  the  flap  of  the  tent, 
where  he  would  stand  and  listen  to  the  sound  of  his  master's 
breathing. 


114  A  DOG  AND  HIS  MASTER 

But  in  spite  of  this  great  love  he  bore  John  Thornton,  which 
seemed  to  bespeak  the  soft  civiHzing  influence,  the  strain  of  the 
primitive,  which  the  Northland  had  aroused  in  him,  remained 
aUve  and  active.  Faithfuhaess  and  devotion,  things  born  of  fire 
and  roof,  were  his;  yet  he  retained  his  wildness  and  wiUness.  He 
was  a  thing  of  the  wild,  come  in  from  the  wild  to  sit  by  John 
Thornton's  fire,  rather  than  a  dog  of  the  soft  Southland  stamped 
with  the  marks  of  generations  of  civiHzation.  Because  of  his  very 
great  love,  he  could  not  steal  from  this  man,  but  from  any  other 
man,  in  any  other  camp,  he  did  not  hesitate  an  instant ;  while 
the  cunning  with  which  he  stole  enabled  him  to  escape  detection. 

His  face  and  body  were  scored  by  the  teeth  of  many  dogs,  and 
he  fought  as  fiercely  as  ever  and  more  shrewdly.  Skeet  and  Nig 
were  too  good-natured  for  quarrelling,  —  besides,  they  belonged  to 
John  Thornton ;  but  the  strange  dog,  no  matter  what  the  breed 
or  valor,  swiftly  acknowledged  Buck's  supremacy  or  found  himself 
struggling  for  Hfe  with  a  terrible  antagonist.  And  Buck  was 
merciless.  He  had  learned  well  the  law  of  club  and  fang,  and  he 
never  forewent  an  advantage  or  drew  back  from  a  foe  he  had 
started  on  the  way  to  Death.  He  had  lessoned  from  Spitz,  and 
from  the  chief  fighting  dogs  of  the  police  and  mail,  and  knew 
there  was  no  middle  course.  He  must  master  or  be  mastered; 
while  to  show  mercy  was  a  weakness.  Mercy  did  not  exist  in 
the  primordial  life.  It  was  misunderstood  for  fear,  and  such 
misunderstandings  made  for  death.  Kill  or  be  killed,  eat  or  be 
eaten,  was  the  law ;  and  this  mandate,  down  out  of  the  depths  of 
Time,  he  obeyed. 

He  was  older  than  the  days  he  had  seen  and  the  breaths  he 
had  drawn.  He  linked  the  past  with  the  present,  and  the  eter- 
nity behind  him  throbbed  through  him  in  a  mighty  rhythm  to  which 
he  swayed  as  the  tides  and  seasons  swayed.  He  sat  by  John 
Thornton's  fire,  a  broad-breasted  dog,  white-fanged  and  long- 
furred  ;  but  behind  him  were  the  shades  of  all  manner  of  dogs, 
half-wolves  and  wild  wolves,  urgent  and  prompting,  tasting  the 
savor  of  the  meat  he  ate,  thirsting  for  the  water  he  drank,  scenting 
the  wind  with  him,  listening  with  him  and  telling  him  the  sounds 
made  by  the  wild  Hfe  in  the  forest,  dictating  his  moods,  directing 
his  actions,  lying  down  to  sleep  with  him  when  he  lay  down,  and 


JACK  LONDON  II5 

dreaming  with  him  and  beyond  him  and  becoming  themselves  the 
stuff  of  his  dreams. 

So  peremptorily  did  these  shades  beckon  him,  that  each  day 
mankind  and  the  claims  of  mankind  slipped  farther  from  him. 
Deep  in  the  forest  a  call  was  sounding,  and  as  often  as  he  heard 
this  call,  mysteriously  thrilling  and  luring,  he  felt  compelled  to 
turn  his  back  upon  the  fire  and  the  beaten  earth  around  it,  and 
to  plunge  into  the  forest,  and  on  and  on,  he  knew  not  where  or 
why ;  nor  did  he  wonder  where  or  why,  the  call  sounding  imperi- 
ously, deep  in  the  forest.  But  as  often  as  he  gained  the  soft 
unbroken  earth  and  the  green  shade,  the  love  for  John  Thornton 
drew  him  back  to  the  fire  again. 

Thornton  alone  held  him.  The  rest  of  mankind  was  as  nothing. 
Chance  travellers  might  praise  or  pet  him ;  but  he  was  cold  under 
it  all,  and  from  a  too  demonstrative  man  he  would  get  up  and 
walk  away.  When  Thornton's  partners,  Hans  and  Pete,  arrived 
on  the  long-expected  raft,  Buck  refused  to  notice  them  till  he 
learned  they  were  close  to  Thornton  ;  after  that  he  tolerated  them 
in  a  passive  sort  of  way,  accepting  favors  from  them  as  though  he 
favored  them  by  accepting.  They  were  of  the  same  large  type  as 
Thornton,  living  close  to  the  earth,  thinking  simply  and  seeing 
clearly ;  and  ere  they  swung  the  raft  into  the  big  eddy  by  the  saw- 
mill at  Dawson,  they  understood  Buck  and  his  ways,  and  did  not 
insist  upon  an  intimacy  such  as  obtained  with  Skeet  and  Nig. 

For  Thornton,  however,  his  love  seemed  to  grow  and  grow. 
He,  alone  among  men,  could  put  a  pack  upon  Buck's  back  in  the 
summer  travelling.  Nothing  was  too  great  for  Buck  to  do,  when 
Thornton  commanded.  One  day  (they  had  grub-staked  them- 
selves from  the  proceeds  of  the  raft  and  left  Dawson  for  the  head- 
waters of  the  Tanana)  the  men  and  dogs  were  sitting  on  the 
crest  of  a  cliff  which  fell  away,  straight  down,  to  naked  bed-rock 
three  hundred  feet  below.  John  Thornton  was  sitting  near  the 
edge.  Buck  at  his  shoulder.  A  thoughtless  whim  seized  Thornton, 
and  he  drew  the  attention  of  Hans  and  Pete  to  the  experiment  he 
had  in  mind.  "Jump,  Buck  !  "  he  commanded,  sweeping  his  arm 
out  and  over  the  chasm.  The  next  instant  he  was  grappling  with 
Buck  on  the  extreme  edge,  while  Hans  and  Pete  were  dragging 
them  back  into  safety. 


Il6  A   DOG  AND  HIS  MASTER 

"  It's  uncanny,"  Pete  said,  after  it  was  over  and  they  caught 
their  speech. 

Thornton  shook  his  head.  "  No,  it  is  splendid,  and  it  is  ter- 
rible, too.      Do  you  know,  it  sometimes  makes  me  afraid." 

"  I'm  not  hankering  to  be  the  man  that  lays  hands  on  you  while 
he's  around,"  Pete  announced  conclusively,  nodding  his  head 
toward  Buck. 

"  Py  Jingo  !  "  was  Hans's  contribution.     "  Not  mineself  either." 

It  was  at  Circle  City,  ere  the  year  was  out,  that  Pete's  appre- 
hensions were  realized.  "  Black  "  Burton,  a  man  evil-tempered 
and  malicious,  had  been  picking  a  quarrel  with  a  tenderfoot  at 
the  bar,  when  Thornton  stepped  good-naturedly  between.  Buck, 
as  was  his  custom,  was  lying  in  a  corner,  head  on  paws,  watch- 
ing his  master's  every  action.  Burton  struck  out,  without  warn- 
ing, straight  from  the  shoulder.  Thornton  was  sent  spinning, 
and  saved  himself  from  falling  only  by  clutching  the  rail  of 
the  bar. 

Those  who  were  looking  on  heard  what  was  neither  bark  nor 
yelp,  but  a  something  which  is  best  described  as  a  roar,  and  they 
saw  Buck's  body  rise  up  in  the  air  as  he  left  the  floor  for  Burton's 
throat.  The  man  saved  his  life  by  instinctively  throwing  out  his 
arm,  but  was  hurled  backward  to  the  floor  with  Buck  on  top  of 
him.  Buck  loosed  his  teeth  from  the  flesh  of  the  arm  and  drove 
in  again  for  the  throat.  This  time  the  man  succeeded  only  in 
partly  blocking,  and  his  throat  was  torn  open.  Then  the  crowd 
was  upon  Buck,  and  he  was  driven  off;  but  while  a  surgeon 
checked  the  bleeding,  he  prowled  up  and  down,  growling  furiously, 
attempting  to  rush  in,  and  being  forced  back  by  an  array  of  hostile 
clubs.  A  "  miners'  meeting,"  called  on  the  spot,  decided  that  the 
dog  had  sufficient  provocation,  and  Buck  was  discharged.  But 
his  reputation  was  made,  and  from  that  day  his  name  spread 
through  every  camp  in   Alaska. 

Later  on,  in  the  fall  of  the  year,  he  saved  John  Thornton's  life 
in  quite  another  fashion.  The  three  partners  were  hning  a  long' 
and  narrow  poling-boat  down  a  bad  stretch  of  rapids  on  the  Forty- 
Mile  Creek.  Hans  and  Pete  moved  along  the  bank,  snubbing 
with  a  thin  Manila  rope  from  tree  to  tree,  while  Thornton  remained 
in  the  boat  helping  its  descent  by  means  of  a  pole,  and  shouting 


JACK  LONDON  II7 

directions  to  the  shore.  Buck,  on  the  bank,  worried  and  anxious, 
kept  abreast  of  the  boat,  his  eyes  never  off  his  master. 

At  a  particularly  bad  spot,  where  a  ledge  of  barely  submerged 
rocks  jutted  out  into  the  river,  Hans  cast  off  the  rope,  and,  while 
Thornton  poled  the  boat  out  into  the  stream,  ran  down  the  bank 
with  the  end  in  his  hand  to  snub  the  boat  when  it  had  cleared  the 
ledge.  This  it  did,  and  was  flying  down-stream  in  a  current  as 
swift  as  a  mill-race,  when  Hans  checked  it  with  the  rope  and 
checked  too  suddenly.  The  boat  flirted  over  and  snubbed  in  to 
the  bank  bottom  up,  whUe  Thornton,  flung  sheer  out  of  it,  was 
carried  down- stream  toward  the  worst  part  of  the  rapids,  a  stretch 
of  wild  water  in  which  no  swimmer  could  live. 

Buck  had  sprung  in  on  the  instant ;  and  at  the  end  of  three 
hundred  yards,  amid  a  mad  swirl  of  water,  he  overhauled  Thornton. 
When  he  felt  him  grasp  his  tail,  Buck  headed  for  the  bank,  swim- 
ming with  all  his  splendid  strength.  But  the  progress  shoreward 
was  slow ;  the  progress  down-stream  amazingly  rapid.  From  be- 
low came  the  fatal  roaring  where  the  wild  current  went  wilder 
and  was  rent  in  shreds  and  spray  by  the  rocks  which  thrust  through 
like  the  teeth  of  an  enormous  comb.  The  suck  of  the  water  as  it 
took  the  beginning  of  the  last  steep  pitch  was  frightful,  and  Thorn- 
ton knew  that  the  shore  was  impossible.  He  scraped  furiously 
over  a  rock,  bruised  across  a  second,  and  struck  a  third  with 
crushing  force.  He  clutched  its  slippery  top  with  both  hands, 
releasing  Buck,  and  above  the  roar  of  the  churning  water  shouted  : 
"Go,  Buck!  go  !" 

Buck  could  not  hold  his  own,  and  swept  on  down-stream, 
struggling  desperately,  but  unable  to  win  back.  When  he  heard 
Thornton's  command  repeated,  he  partly  reared  out  of  the  water, 
throwing  his  head  high,  as  though  for  a  last  look,  then  turned 
obediently  toward  the  bank.  He  swam  powerfully  and  was 
dragged  ashore  by  Pete  and  Hans  at  the  very  point  where  swim- 
ming ceased  to  be  possible  and  destruction  began. 

They  knew  that  the  time  a  man  could  cling  to  a  slippery  rock 
in  the  face  of  that  driving  current  was  a  matter  of  minutes,  and  they 
ran  as  fast  as  they  could  up  the  bank  to  a  point  far  above  where 
Thornton  was  hanging  on.  They  attached  the  line  with  which 
they  had  been  snubbing  the  boat  to  Buck's  neck  and  shoulders, 


Il8  A   DOG  AND  HIS  MASTER 

being  careful  that  it  should  neither  strangle  him  nor  impede  his 
swimming,  and  launched  him  into  the  stream.  He  struck  out 
boldly,  but  not  straight  enough  into  the  stream.  He  discovered 
the  mistake  too  late,  when  Thornton  was  abreast  of  him  and  a  bare 
half-dozen  strokes  away  while  he  was  being  carried  helplessly  past. 

Hans  promptly  snubbed  with  the  rope,  as  though  Buck  were  a 
boat.  The  rope  thus  tightening  on  him  in  the  sweep  of  the  cur- 
rent, he  was  jerked  under  the  surface,  and  under  the  surface  he 
remained  till  his  body  struck  against  the  bank  and  he  was  hauled 
out.  He  was  half  drowned,  and  Hans  and  Pete  threw  themselves 
upon  him,  pounding  the  breath  into  him  and  the  water  out  of  him. 
He  staggered  to  his  feet  and  fell  down.  The  faint  sound  of 
Thornton's  voice  came  to  them,  and  though  they  could  not  make 
out  the  words  of  it,  they  kneyv  that  he  was  in  his  extremity.  His 
master's  voice  acted  on  Buck  like  an  electric  shock.  He  sprang 
to  his  feet  and  ran  up  the  bank  ahead  of  the  men  to  the  point  of 
his  previous  departure. 

Again  the  rope  was  attached  and  he  was  launched,  and  again  he 
struck  out,  but  this  time  straight  into  the  stream.  He  had  mis- 
calculated once,  but  he  would  not  be  guilty  of  it  a  second  time. 
Hans  paid  out  the  rope,  permitting  no  slack,  while  Pete  kept  it 
clear  of  coils.  Buck  held  on  till  he  was  on  a  line  straight  above 
Thornton ;  then  he  turned,  and  with  the  speed  of  an  express 
train  headed  down  upon  him.  Thornton  saw  him  coming,  and,  as 
Buck  struck  him  like  a  battering  ram,  with  the  whole  force  of  the 
current  behind  him,  he  reached  up  and  closed  with  both  arms 
around  the  shaggy  neck.  Hans  snubbed  the  rope  around  the 
tree,  and  Buck  and  Thornton  were  jerked  under  the  water. 
Strangling,  suffocating,  sometimes  one  uppermost  and  sometimes 
the  other,  dragging  over  the  jagged  bottom,  smashing  against 
rocks  and  snags,  they  veered  in  to  the  bank. 

Thornton  came  to,  belly  downward  and  being  violently  propelled 
back  and  forth  across  a  drift  log  by  Hans  and  Pete.  His  first 
glance  was  for  Buck,  over  whose  limp  and  apparently  hfeless  body 
Nig  was  setting  up  a  howl,  while  Skeet  was  licking  the  wet  face 
and  closed  eyes.  Thornton  was  himself  bruised  and  battered,  and 
he  went  carefully  over  Buck's  body,  when  he  had  been  brought 
around,  finding  three  broken  ribs. 


JACK  LONDON  II9 

"That  settles  it,"  he  announced.  "We  camp  right  here." 
And  camp  they  did,  till  Buck's  ribs  knitted  and  he  was  able  to  travel. 

That  winter,  at  Dawson,  Buck  performed  another  exploit, 
not  so  heroic,  perhaps,  but  one  that  put  his  name  many  notches 
higher  on  the  totem-pole  of  Alaskan  fame.  This  exploit  was  par- 
ticularly gratifying  to  the  three  men  ;  for  they  stood  in  need  of  the 
outfit  which  it  furnished,  and  were  enabled  to  make  a  long-desired 
trip  into  the  virgin  East,  where  miners  had  not  yet  appeared.  It 
was  brought  about  by  a  conversation  in  the  Eldorado  Saloon,  in 
which  men  waxed  boastful  of  their  favorite  dogs.  Buck,  because 
of  his  record,  was  the  target  for  these  men,  and  Thornton  was 
driven  stoutly  to  defend  him.  At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  one 
man  stated  that  his  dog  could  start  a  sled  with  five  hundred 
pounds  and  walk  off  with  it ;  a  second  bragged  six  hundred  for  his 
dog  ;  and  a  third,  seven  hundred. 

"  Pooh  !  pooh  !  "  said  John  Thornton ;  "  Buck  can  start  a  thou- 
sand pounds." 

"  And  break  it  out  ?  and  walk  off  with  it  for  a  hundred  yards  ?  " 
demanded  Matthewson,  a  Bonanza  King,  he  of  the  seven  hundred 
vaunt. 

"  And  break  it  out,  and  walk  off  with  it  for  a  hundred  yards," 
John  Thornton  said  coolly. 

"Well,"  Matthewson  said,  slowly  and  deliberately,  so  that  all 
could  hear,  "  I've  got  a  thousand  dollars  that  says  he  can't.  And 
there  it  is."  So  saying,  he  slammed  a  sack  of  gold  dust  of  the 
size  of  a  bologna  sausage  down  upon  the  bar. 

Nobody  spoke.  Thornton's  bluff,  if  bluff  it  was,  had  been 
called.  He  could  feel  a  flush  of  warm  blood  creeping  up  his 
face.  His  tongue  had  tricked  him.  He  did  not  know  whether 
Buck  could  start  a  thousand  pounds.  Half  a  ton  !  The  enor- 
mousness  of  it  appalled  him.  He  had  great  faith  in  Buck's 
strength  and  had  often  thought  him  capable  of  starting  such  a 
load;  but  never,  as  now,  had  he  faced  the  possibility  of  it  —  the 
eyes  of  a  dozen  men  fixed  upon  him,  silent  and  waiting.  Further, 
he  had  no  thousand  dollars ;  nor  had  Hans  or  Pete. 

"  I've  got  a  sled  standing  outside  now,  with  twenty  fifty-pound 
sacks  of  flour  on  it,"  Matthewson  went  on  with  brutal  directness; 
"  so  don't  let  that  hinder  you." 


120  A   DOG  AND  HIS  MASTER 

Thornton  did  not  reply.  He  did  not  know  what  to  say.  He 
glanced  from  face  to  face  in  the  absent  way  of  a  man  who  has 
lost  the  power  of  thought  and  is  seeking  somewhere  to  find  the 
thing  that  will  start  it  going  again.  The  face  of  Jim  O'Brien,  a 
Mastodon  King  and  old-time  comrade,  caught  his  eyes.  It  was 
as  a  cue  to  him,  seeming  to  rouse  him  to  do  what  he  would  never 
have  dreamed  of  doing. 

"  Can  you  lend  me  a  thousand?  "  he  asked,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"  Sure,"  answered  O'Brien,  thumping  down  a  plethoric  sack  by 
the  side  of  Matthewson's.  "  Though  it's  little  faith  I'm  having, 
John,  that  the  beast  can  do  the  trick." 

The  Eldorado  emptied  its  occupants  into  the  street  to  see  the 
test.  The  tables  were  deserted,  and  the  dealers  and  gamekeepers 
came  forth  to  see  the  outcome  of  the  wager  and  to  lay  odds. 
Several  hundred  men,  furred  and  mittened,  banked  around  the 
sled  within  easy  distance.  Matthewson's  sled,  loaded  with  a  thou- 
sand pounds  of  flour,  had  been  standing  for  a  couple  of  hours, 
and  in  the  intense  cold  (it  was  sixty  below  zero)  the  runners  had 
frozen  fast  to  the  hard-packed  snow.  Men  offered  odds  of  two 
to  one  that  Buck  could  not  budge  the  sled.  A  quibble  arose 
concerning  the  phrase  "  break  out."  O'Brien  contended  it  was 
Thornton's  privilege  to  knock  the  runners  loose,  leaving  Buck  to 
"  break  it  out  "  from  a  dead  standstill.  Matthewson  insisted  that 
the  phrase  included  breaking  the  runners  from  the  frozen  grip  of 
the  snow.  A  majority  of  the  men  who  had  witnessed  the  making 
of  the  bet  decided  in  his  favor,  whereat  the  odds  went  up  to  three 
to  one  against  Buck. 

There  were  no  takers.  Not  a  man  believed  him  capable  of  the 
feat.  Thornton  had  been  hurried  into  the  wager,  heavy  with 
doubt ;  and  now  that  he  looked  at  the  sled  itself,  the  concrete 
fact,  with  the  regular  team  of  ten  dogs  curled  up  in  the  snow 
before  it,  the  more  impossible  the  task  appeared.  Matthewson 
waxed  jubilant. 

"Three  to  one  !  "  he  proclaimed.  "  I'll  lay  you  another  thou- 
sand at  that  figure,  Thornton.     What  d'ye  say?" 

Thornton's  doubt  was  strong  in  his  face,  but  his  fighting  spirit 
was  aroused  —  the  fighting  spirit  that  soars  above  odds,  fails  to 
recognize  the  impossible,  and  is  deaf  to  all  save  the  clamor  for 


JACK  LONDON  121 

battle.  He  called  Hans  and  Pete  to  him.  Their  sacks  were 
slim,  and  with  his  own  the  three  partners  could  rake  together  only 
two  hundred  dollars.  In  the  ebb  of  their  fortunes,  this  sum  was 
their  total  capital ;  yet  they  laid  it  unhesitatingly  against  Matthew- 
son's  six  hundred. 

The  team  of  ten  dogs  was  unhitched,  and  Buck,  with  his  own 
harness,  was  put  into  the  sled.  He  had  caught  the  contagion  of 
the  excitement,  and  he  felt  that  in  some  way  he  must  do  a  great 
thing  for  John  Thornton.  Murmurs  of  admiration  at  his  splendid 
appearance  went  up.  He  was  in  perfect  condition,  without  an 
ounce  of  superfluous  flesh,  and  the  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
that  he  weighed  were  so  many  pounds  of  grit  and  virility.  His 
furry  coat  shone  with  the  sheen  of  silk.  Down  the  neck  and 
across  the  shoulders,  his  mane,  in  repose  as  it  was,  half  bristled 
and  seemed  to  lift  with  every  movement,  as  though  excess  of 
vigor  made  each  particular  hair  alive  and  active.  The  great 
breast  and  heavy  fore  legs  were  no  more  than  in  proportion  with 
the  rest  of  the  body,  where  the  muscles  showed  in  tight  rolls 
underneath  the  skin.  Men  felt  these  muscles  and  proclaimed 
them  hard  as  iron,  and  the  odds  went  down  to  two  to  one. 

"  Gad,  sir  !  Gad,  sir  !  "  stuttered  a  member  of  the  latest  dy- 
nasty, a  king  of  the  Skookum  Benches.  "  I  offer  you  eight  hun- 
dred for  him,  sir,  before  the  test,  sir,  eight  hundred  just  as  he 
stands." 

Thornton  shook  his  head  and  stepped  to  Buck's  side. 

"  You  must  stand  off  from  him,"  Matthewson  protested.  "  Free 
play  and  plenty  of  room." 

The  crowd  fell  silent ;  only  could  be  heard  the  voices  of  gam- 
blers vainly  offering  two  to  one.  Everybody  acknowledged  Buck 
a  magnificent  animal,  but  twenty  fifty-pound  sacks  of  flour  bulked 
too  large  in  their  eyes  for  them  to  loosen  their  pouch-strings. 

Thornton  knelt  down  by  Buck's  side.  He  took  his  head  in  his 
two  hands  and  rested  cheek  on  cheek.  He  did  not  playfully 
shake  him,  as  was  his  wont,  or  murmur  soft  love  curses ;  but  he 
whispered  in  his  ear.  "  As  you  love  me,  Buck.  As  you  love  me," 
was  what  he  whispered.     Buck  whined  with  suppressed  eagerness. 

The  crowd  was  watching  curiously.  The  affliir  was  growing 
mysterious.     It  seemed  like  a  conjuration.     As  Thornton  got  to 


122  A   DOG  AND  HIS  MASTER 

his  feet,  Buck  seized  his  mittened  hand  between  his  jaws,  pressing 
it  with  his  teeth  and  releasing  slowly,  half  reluctantly.  It  was  the 
answer,  in  terms,  not  of  speech,  but  of  love.  Thornton  stepped 
well  back. 

"  Now,  Buck,"  he  said. 

Buck  tightened  the  traces,  then  slackened  them  for  a  matter  of 
several  inches.     It  was  the  way  he  had  learned. 

"  Gee  !  "    Thornton's  voice  rang  out,  sharp  in  the  tense  silence. 

Buck  swung  to  the  right,  ending  the  movement  in  a  plunge  that 
took  up  the  slack  and  with  a  sudden  jerk  arrested  his  one  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds.  The  load  quivered,  and  from  under  the  runners 
arose  a  crisp  crackling. 

"  Haw  !  "  Thornton  commanded. 

Buck  duplicated  the  manoeuvre,  this  time  to  the  left.  The 
crackling  turned  into  a  snapping,  the  sled  pivoting  and  the 
runners  slipping  and  grating  several  inches  to  the  side.  The  sled 
was  broken  out.  Men  were  holding  their  breaths,  intensely  un- 
conscious of  the  fact. 

"  Now,  MUSH  !  " 

Thornton's  command  cracked  out  like  a  pistol  shot.  Buck 
threw  himself  forward,  tightening  the  traces  with' a  jarring  lunge. 
His  whole  body  was  gathered  compactly  together  in  the  tremen- 
dous effort,  the  muscles  writhing  and  knotting  like  live  things 
under  the  silky  fur.  His  great  chest  was  low  to  the  ground,  his 
head  forward  and  down,  while  his  feet  were  flying  like  mad,  the 
claws  scarring  the  hard-packed  snow  in  parallel  grooves.  The  sled 
swayed  and  trembled,  half  started  forward.  One  of  his  feet  slipped, 
and  one  man  groaned  aloud.  Then  the  sled  lurched  ahead 
in  what  appeared  a  rapid  succession  of  jerks,  though  it  really 
never  came  to  a  dead  stop  again  —  half  an  inch  —  an  inch  —  two 
inches  —  the  jerks  perceptibly  diminished;  as  the  sled  gained 
momentum,  he  caught  them  up,  till  it  was  moving  steadily  along. 

Men  gasped  and  began  to  breathe  again,  unaware  that  for  a 
moment  they  had  ceased  to  breathe.  Thornton  was  running  be- 
hind, encouraging  Buck  with  short,  cheery  words.  The  distance 
had  been  measured  off,  and  as  he  neared  the  pile  of  firewood 
which  marked  the  end  of  the  hundred  yards,  a  cheer  began  to 
grow  and  grow,  which  burst  into  a  roar  as  he  passed  the  firewood 


JACK  LONDON  1 23 

and  halted  at  command.  Every  man  was  tearing  himself  loose, 
even  Matthewson.  Hats  and  mittens  were  flying  in  the  air.  Men 
were  shaking  hands,  it  did  not  matter  with  whom,  and  bubbling 
over  in  a  general  incoherent  babel. 

But  Thornton  fell  on  his  knees  beside  Buck.  Head  was  against 
head,  and  he  was  shaking  him  back  and  forth.  Those  who 
hurried  up  heard  him  cursing  Buck,  and  he  cursed  him  long  and 
fervently,  and  softly  and  lovingly. 

"Gad,  sir!  Gad,  sir!"  spluttered  the  Skookum  Bench  king. 
"I'll  give  you  a  thousand  for  him,  sir,  a  thousand,  sir  —  twelve 
hundred,  sir." 

Thornton  rose  to  his  feet.  His  eyes  were  wet.  The  tears  were 
streaming  frankly  down  his  cheeks.  "  Sir,"  he  said  to  the  Skookum 
Bench  king,  "  no,  sir.  You  can  go  to  hell,  sir.  It's  the  best  I 
can  do  for  you,  sir." 

Buck  seized  Thornton's  hand  in  his  teeth.  Thornton  shook 
him  back  and  forth.  As  though  animated  by  a  common  impulse, 
the  onlookers  drew  back  to  a  respectful  distance ;  nor  were  they 
again  indiscreet  enough  to  interrupt. 

THE   COMBAT   IN    THE    DESERT 

SIR  WALTER   SCOTT 

[Chapter  i  of  The  Talisman,  1825.] 

—  They,  too,  retired 
To  the  wilderness,  but  'twas  with  arms. 

Paradise  Regained. 

The  burning  sun  of  Syria  had  not  yet  attained  its  highest  point 
in  the  horizon,  when  a  knight  of  the  Red  Cross,  who  had  left  his 
distant  northern  home  and  joined  the  host  of  the  Crusaders  in 
Palestine,  was  pacing  slowly  along  the  sandy  deserts  which  lie  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  Dead  Sea,  or,  as  it  is  called,  the  Lake  Asphal- 
tites,  where  the  waves  of  the  Jordan  pour  themselves  into  an 
inland  sea,  from  which  there  is  no  discharge  of  waters. 

The  warlike  pilgrim  had  toiled  among  cHffs  and  precipices 
during  the  earlier  part  of  the  morning ;  more  lately,  issuing  from 


124  THE    COMBAT  IN   THE  DESERT 

those  rocky  and  dangerous  defiles,  he  had  entered  upon  that  great 
plain,  where  the  accursed  cities  provoked,  in  ancient  days,  the 
direct  and  dreadful  vengeance  of  the  Omnipotent. 

The  toil,  the  thirst,  the  dangers  of  the  way  were  forgotten,  as 
the  traveller  recalled  the  fearful  catastrophe  which  had  converted 
into  an  arid  and  dismal  wilderness  the  fair  and  fertile  valley  of 
Siddim,  once  well  watered,  even  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord,  now 
a  parched  and  blighted  waste,  condemned  to  eternal  sterility. 

Crossing  himself,  as  he  viewed  the  dark  mass  of  rolling  waters, 
in  color  as  in  quality  unlike  those  of  every  other  lake,  the  trav- 
eller shuddered  as  he  remembered  that  beneath  these  sluggish 
waves  lay  the  once  proud  cities  of  the  plain,  whose  grave  was 
dug  by  the  thunder  of  the  heavens,  or  the  eruption  of  subterra- 
neous fire,  and  whose  remains  were  hid,  even  by  that  sea  which 
holds  no  living  fish  in  its  bosom,  bears  no  skiff  on  its  surface,  and, 
as  if  its  own  dreadful  bed  were  the  only  fit  receptacle  for  its  sullen 
waters,  sends  not,  hke  other  lakes,  a  tribute  to  the  ocean.  The 
whole  land  around,  as  in  the  days  of  Moses,  was  "  brimstone  and 
salt ;  it  is  not  sown,  nor  beareth,  nor  any  grass  groweth  thereon  "  ; 
the  land  as  well  as  the  lake  might  be  termed  dead,  as  producing 
nothing  having  resemblance  to  vegetation^  and  even  the  very  air 
was  entirely  devoid  of  its  ordinary  winged  inhabitants,  deterred 
probably  by  the  odor  of  bitumen  and  sulphur,  which  the  burning 
sun  exhaled  from  the  waters  of  the  lake,  in  steaming  clouds,  fre- 
quently assuming  the  appearance  of  waterspouts.  Masses  of  the 
slimy  and  sulphurous  substance  called  naphtha,  which  floated  idly 
on  the  sluggish  and  sullen  waves,  supphed  those  rolling  clouds 
with  new  vapours,  and  afforded  awful  testimony  to  the  truth  of  the 
Mosaic  history. 

Upon  this  scene  of  desolation  the  sun  shone  with  almost  in- 
tolerable splendour,  and  all  living  nature  seemed  to  have  hidden 
itself  from  the  rays,  excepting  the  solitary  figure  which  moved 
through  the  flitting  sand  at  a  foot's  pace,  and  appeared  the  sole 
breathing  thing  on  the  wide  surface  of  the  plain.  The  dress 
of  the  rider  and  the  accoutrements  of  his  horse  were  peculiarly 
unfit  for  the  traveller  in  such  a  country.  A  coat  of  hnked  mail, 
with  long  sleeves,  plated  gauntlets,  and  a  steel  breastplate,  had  not 
been  esteemed  a  sufificient  weight  of  armour :  there  was  also  his 


SIR    IV ALTER   SCOTT  12$ 

triangular  shield  suspended  round  his  neck,  and  his  barred  helmet 
of  steel,  over  which  he  had  a  hood  and  collar  of  mail,  which  was 
drawn  around  the  warrior's  shoulders  and  throat,  and  filled  up  the 
vacancy  between  the  hauberk  and  the  head-piece.  His  lower 
limbs  were  sheathed,  like  his  body,  in  flexible  mail,  securing  the 
legs  and  thighs,  while  the  feet  rested  in  plated  shoes,  which  cor- 
responded with  the  gauntlets.  A  long,  broad,  straight-shaped, 
double-edged  falchion,  with  a  handle  formed  like  a  cross,  corre- 
sponded with  a  stout  poniard  on  the  other  side.  The  knight  also 
bore,  secured  to  his  saddle,  with  one  end  resting  on  his  stirrup, 
the  long  steel-headed  lance,  his  own  proper  weapon,  which,  as  he 
rode,  projected  backward,  and  displayed  its  little  pennoncelle,  to 
dally  with  the  faint  breeze,  or  drop  in  the  dead  calm.  To  this 
cumbrous  equipment  must  be  added  a  surcoat  of  embroidered 
cloth,  much  frayed  and  worn,  which  was  thus  far  useful,  that  it 
excluded  the  burning  rays  of  the  sun  from  the  armour,  which 
they  would  otherwise  have  rendered  intolerable  to  the  wearer. 
The  surcoat  bore,  in  several  places,  the  arms  of  the  owner,  although 
much  defaced.  These  seemed  to  be  a  couchant  leopard,  with  the 
motto,  "  I  sleep  —  wake  me  not."  An  outline  of  the  same  device 
might  be  traced  on  his  shield,  though  many  a  blow  had  almost 
effaced  the  painting.  The  flat  top  of  his  cumbrous  cylindrical 
helmet  was  unadorned  with  any  crest.  In  retaining  their  own*' 
unwieldy  defensive  armor,  the  northern  Crusaders  seemed  to  set 
at  defiance  the  nature  of  the  climate  and  country  to  which  they 
had  come  to  war. 

The  accoutrements  of  the  horse  were  scarcely  less  massive  and 
unwieldy  than  those  of  the  rider.  The  animal  had  a  heavy  saddle 
plated  with  steel,  uniting  in  front  with  a  species  of  breastplate, 
and  behind  with  defensive  armour  made  to  cover  the  loins.  Then 
there  was  a  steel  axe,  or  hammer,  called  a  mace-of-arms,  and  which 
hung  to  the  saddle-bow  ;  the  reins  were  secured  by  chain-work,  and 
the  front-stall  of  the  bridle  was  a  steel  plate,  with  apertures  for  the 
eyes  and  nostrils,  having  in  the  midst  a  short,  sharp  pike,  projecting 
from  the  forehead  of  the  horse  like  the  horn  of  the  fabulous  unicorn. 

But  habit  had  made  the  endurance  of  this  load  of  panoply  a 
second  nature  both  to  the  knight  and  his  gallant  charger.  Num- 
bers, indeed,  of  the  Western  warriors  who  hurried  to  Palestine 


126  THE    COMBAT  IN   THE  DESERT 

i 

died  ere  they  became  inured  to  the  burning  climate ;  but  there 
were  others  to  whom  that  chmate  became  innocent  and  even 
friendly,  and  among  this  fortunate  number  was  the  solitary  horse- 
man who  now  traversed  the  border  of  the  Dead  Sea. 

Nature,  which  cast  his  limbs  in  a  mould  of  uncommon  strength, 
fitted  to  wear  his  linked  hauberk  with  as  much  ease  as  if  the 
meshes  had  been  formed  of  cobwebs,  had  endowed  him  with  a 
constitution  as  strong  as  his  limbs,  and  which  bade  defiance  to 
almost  all  changes  of  climate,  as  well  as  to  fatigue  and  privations 
of  every  kind.  His  disposition  seemed,  in  some  degree,  to  par- 
take of  the  qualities  of  his  bodily  frame  ;  and  as  the  one  possessed 
great  strength  and  endurance,  united  with  the  power  of  violent 
exertion,  the  other,  under  a  calm  and  undisturbed  semblance,  had 
much  of  the  fiery  and  enthusiastic  love  of  glory  which  constituted 
the  principal  attribute  of  the  renowned  Norman  line,  and  had 
rendered  them  sovereigns  in  every  corner  of  Europe  where  they 
had  drawn  their  adventurous  swords. 

It  was  not,  however,  to  all  the  race  that  fortune  proposed  such 
tempting  rewards ;  and  those  obtained  by  the  solitary  knight  dur- 
ing two  years'  campaign  in  Palestine  had  been  only  temporal  feme, 
and,  as  he  was  taught  to  believe,  spiritual  privileges.  Meantime, 
his  slender  stock  of  money  had  melted  away,  the  rather  that  he  did 
not  pursue  any  of  the  ordinary  modes  by  which  the  followers  of 
the  Crusade  condescended  to  recruit  their  diminished  resources, 
at  the  expense  of  the  people  of  Palestine  :  he  exacted  no  gifts 
from  the  wretched  natives  for  sparing  their  possessions  when 
engaged  in  warfare  with  the  Saracens,  and  he  had  not  availed  him- 
self of  any  opportunity  of  enriching  himself  by  the  ransom  of 
prisoners  of  consequence.  The  small  train  which  had  followed 
him  from  his  native  country  had  been  gradually  diminished,  as  the 
means  of  maintaining  them  disappeared,  and  his  only  remaining 
squire  was  at  present  on  a  sick-bed,  and  unable  to  attend  his 
master,  who  travelled,  as  we  have  seen,  singly  and  alone.  This 
was  of  little  consequence  to  the  Crusader,  who  was  accustomed  to 
consider  his  good  sword  as  his  safest  escort,  and  devout  thoughts 
as  his  best  companion. 

Nature  had,  however,  her  demands  for  refreshment  and  repose, 
even  on  the  iron  frame  and  patient  disposition  of  the  Knight  of 


SIR    WALTER   SCOTT  12/ 

the  Sleeping  Leopard ;  and  at  noon,  when  the  Dead  Sea  lay  at 
some  distance  on  his  right,  he  joyfully  hailed  the  sight  of  two  or 
three  palm  trees,  which  arose  beside  the  well  which  was  assigned 
for  his  midday  station.  His  good  horse,  too,  which  had  plodded 
forward  with  the  steady  endurance  of  his  master,  now  lifted  his 
head,  expanded  his  nostrils,  and  quickened  his  pace,  as  if  he 
snuffed  afar  off  the  living  waters,  which  marked  the  place  of  re- 
pose and  refreshment.  But  labour  and  danger  were  doomed  to 
intervene  ere  the  horse  or  horseman  reached  the  desired  spot. 

As  the  Knight  of  the  Couchant  Leopard  continued  to  fix  his 
eyes  attentively  on  the  yet  distant  cluster  of  palm  trees,  it  seemed 
to  him  as  if  some  object  was  moving  among  them.  The  distant 
form  separated  itself  from  the  trees,  which  partly  hid  its  motions, 
and  advanced  toward  the  knight  with  a  speed  which  soon  showed 
a  mounted  horseman,  whom  his  turban,  long  spear,  and  green 
caftan  floating  in  the  wind,  on  his  nearer  approach,  showed  to  be 
a  Saracen  cavalier.  "  In  the  desert,"  saith  an  Eastern  proverb, 
"no  man  meets  a  friend."  The  Crusader  was  totally  indifferent 
whether  the  infidel,  who  now  approached  on  his  gallant  barb,  as  if 
borne  on  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  came  as  friend  or  foe  ;  perhaps,  as 
a  vowed  champion  of  the  Cross,  he  might  rather  have  preferred 
the  latter.  He  disengaged  his  lance  from  his  saddle,  seized  it 
with  the  right  hand,  placed  it  in  rest  with  its  point  half  elevated, 
gathered  up  the  reins  in  the  left,  waked  his  horse's  mettle  with  the 
spur,  and  prepared  to  encounter  the  stranger  with  the  calm  self- 
confidence  belonging  to  the  victor  in  many  contests. 

The  Saracen  came  on  at  the  speedy  gallop  of  an  Arab  horse- 
man, managing  his  steed  more  by  his  limbs  and  the  inflection  of 
his  body  than  by  any  use  of  the  reins,  which  hung  loose  in  his  left 
hand  ;  so  that  he  was  enabled  to  wield  the  light  round  buckler  of 
the  skin  of  the  rhinoceros,  ornamented  with  silver  loops,  which 
he  wore  on  his  arm,  swinging  it  as  if  he  meant  to  oppose  its 
slender  circle  to  the  formidable  thrust  of  the  Western  lance.  His 
own  long  spear  was  not  couched  or  levelled  hke  that  of  his  antago- 
nist, but  grasped  by  the  middle  with  his  right  hand,  and  bran- 
dished at  arm's  length  above  his  head.  As  the  cavalier  approached 
his  enemy  at  full  career,  he  seemed  to  expect  that  the  Knight  of 
the  Leopard  should  put  his  horse  to  the  gallop  to  encounter  him. 


128  THE    COMBAT  IN  THE  DESERT 

But  the  Christian  knight,  well  acquainted  with  the  customs  of 
Eastern  warriors,  did  not  mean  to  exhaust  his  good  horse  by  any 
unnecessary  exertion ;  and,  on  the  contrary,  made  a  dead  halt, 
confident  that  if  the  enemy  advanced  to  the  actual  shock,  his  own 
weight,  and  that  of  his  powerful  charger,  would  give  him  sufficient 
advantage,  without  the  additional  momentum  of  rapid  •  motion. 
Equally  sensible  and  apprehensive  of  such  a  probable  result,  the 
Saracen  cavalier,  when  he  had  approached  toward  the  Christian 
within  twice  the  length  of  his  lance,  wheeled  his  steed  to  the  left 
with  inimitable  dexterity,  and  rode  twice  around  his  antagonist, 
who,  turning  without  quitting  his  ground,  and  presenting  his  front 
constantly  to  his  enemy,  frustrated  his  attempts  to  attack  him  on 
an  unguarded  point ;  so  that  the  Saracen,  wheeling  his  horse,  was 
fain  to  retreat  to  the  distance  of  an  hundred  yards.  A  second 
time,  like  a  hawk  attacking  a  heron,  the  Heathen  renewed  the 
charge,  and  a  second  time  was  fain  to  retreat  without  coming  to  a 
close  struggle.  A  third  time  he  approached  in  the  same  manner, 
when  the  Christian  knight,  desirous  to  terminate  this  elusory  war- 
fare, in  which  he  might  at  length  have  been  worn  out  by  the 
activity  of  his  foeman,  suddenly  seized  the  mace  which  hung  at 
his  saddle-bow,  and,  with  a  strong  hand  and  unerring  aim,  hurled 
it  against  the  head  of  the  Emir,  for  such  and  not  less  his  enemy 
appeared.  The  Saracen  was  just  aware  of  the  formidable  missile 
in  time  to  interpose  his  light  buckler  betwixt  the  mace  and  his 
head  ;  but  the  violence  of  the  blow  forced  the  buckler  down  on 
his  turban,  and  though  that  defence  also  contributed  to  deaden 
its  violence,  the  Saracen  was  beaten  from  his  horse.  Ere  the 
Christian  could  avail  himself  of  this  mishap,  his  nimble  foeman 
sprung  from  the  ground,  and  calling  on  his  horse,  which  instantly 
returned  to  his  side,  he  leaped  into  his  seat  without  touching  the 
stirrup,  and  regained  all  the  advantage  of  which  the  Knight  of  the 
Leopard  hoped  to  deprive  him.  But  the  latter  had  in  the  mean- 
while recovered  his  mace,  and  the  Eastern  cavalier,  who  remem- 
bered the  strength  and  dexterity  with  which  his  antagonist  had 
aimed  it,  seemed  to  keep  cautiously  out  of  reach  of  that  weapon, 
of  which  he  had  so  lately  felt  the  force,  while  he  showed  his  pur- 
pose of  waging  a  distant  warfare  with  missile  weapons  of  his  own. 
Planting  his  long  spear  in  the  sand  at  a  distance  from  the  scene  of 


SlJi    WALTER   SCOTT  129 

combat,  he  strung,  with  great  address,  a  short  bow  which  he  carried 
at  his  back,  and  putting  his  horse  to  the  gallop,  once  more  de- 
scribed two  or  three  circles  of  a  wider  extent  than  formerly,  in  the 
course  of  which  he  discharged  six  arrows  at  the  Christian  with 
such  unerring  skill  that  the  goodness  of  his  harness  alone  saved 
him  from  being  wounded  in  as  many  places.  The  seventh  shaft 
apparendy  found  a  less  perfect  part  of  the  armour,  and  the  Christian 
dropped  heavily  from  his  horse.  But  what  was  the  surprise  of  the 
Saracen,  when,  dismounting  to  examine  the  condition  of  his  pros- 
trate enemy,  he  found  himself  suddenly  within  the  grasp  of  the 
European,  who  had  had  recourse  to  this  artifice  to  bring  his  enemy 
within  his  reach  !  Even  in  this  deadly  grapple,  the  Saracen  was 
saved  by  his  agility  and  presence  of  mind.  He  unloosed  the 
sword-belt,  in  which  the  Knight  of  the  Leopard  had  fixed  his  hold, 
and,  thus  eluding  his  fatal  grasp,  mounted  his  horse,  which  seemed 
to  watch  his  motions  with  the  inteUigence  of  a  human  being,  and 
again  rode  off.  But  in  the  last  encounter  the  Saracen  had  lost  his 
sword  and  his  quiver  of  arrows,  both  of  which  were  attached  to 
the  girdle,  which  he  was  obliged,  to  abandon.  He  had  also  lost 
his  turban  in  the  struggle.  These  disadvantages  seemed  to  incline 
the  Moslem  to  a  truce  :  he  approached  the  Christian  with  his 
right  hand  extended,  but  no  longer  in  a  menacing  attitude. 

"There  is  truce  betwixt  our  nations,"  he  said,  in  the  lingua 
franca  commonly  used  for  the  purpose  of  communication  with 
the  Crusaders  ;  "  wherefore  should  there  be  war  betwixt  thee  and 
me?     Let  there  be  peace  betwixt  us." 

"  I  am  well  contented,"  answered  he  of  the  Couchant  Leopard  ; 
"  but  what  security  dost  thou  offer  that  thou  wilt  observe  the 
truce?" 

"  The  word  of  a  follower  of  the  Prophet  was  never  broken," 
answered  the  Emir.  "  It  is  thou,  brave  Nazarene,  from  whom 
I  should  demand  security,  did  I  not  know  that  treason  seldom 
dwells  with  courage." 

The  Crusader  felt  that  the  confidence  of  the  Moslem  made  him 
ashamed  of  his  own  doubts. 

"  By  the  cross  of  my  sword,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  the 
weapon  as  he  spoke,  "  I  will  be  true  companion  to  thee,  Saracen, 
while  our  fortune  wills  that  we  remain  in  company  together." 

K 


130  DAVID  AND    THE  ARK 

"  By  Mahommed,  Prophet  of  God,  and  by  Allah,  God  of  the 
Prophet,"  replied  his  late  foeman,  "  there  is  not  treachery  in  my 
heart  toward  thee.  And  now  wend  we  to  yonder  fountain,  for 
the  hour  of  rest  is  at  hand,  and  the  stream  had  hardly  touched 
my  lip  when  I  was  called  to  battle  by  thy  approach." 

The  Knight  of  the  Couchant  Leopard  yielded  a  ready  and 
courteous  assent ;  and   the  late    foes,  without  an  angry  look  or 

Eture  of  doubt,  rode  side  by  side  to  the  little  cluster  of  palm 

DAVID   AND    THE   ARK 

CHARLES   DICKENS 

[From  chapter  3  of  The  Personal  History  and  Experience  of  David  Copper- 
Jield  the  Younger,  1849-50.J 

The  carrier's  horse  was  the  laziest  horse  in  the  world,  I 
should  hope,  and  shuffled  along,  with  his  head  down,  as  if  he 
liked  to  keep  the  people  waiting  to  whom  the  packages  were 
directed.  I  fancied,  indeed,  that  he  sometimes  chuckled  audibly 
over  this  reflection,  but  the  carrier  said  he  was  only  troubled 
with  a  cough. 

The  carrier  had  a  way  of  keeping  his  head  down,  like  his 
horse,  and  of  drooping  sleepily  forward  as  he  drove,  with  one  of 
his  arms  on  each  of  his  knees.  I  say  "drove,"  but  it  struck 
me  that  the  cart  M^ould  have  gone  to  Yarmouth  quite  as  well 
without  him,  for  the  horse  did  all  that ;  and  as  to  conversation, 
he  had  no  idea  of  it  but  whistHng. 

Peggotty  had  a'  basket  of  refreshments  on  her  knee,  which 
would  have  lasted  us  out  handsomely,  if  we  had  been  going  to 
London  by  the  same  conveyance.  We  ate  a  good  deal,  and 
slept  a  good  deal.  Peggotty  always  went  to  sleep  with  her  chin 
upon  the  handle  of  the  basket,  her  hold  of  which  never  relaxed  ; 
and  I  could  not  have  believed  unless  I  had  heard  her  do  it, 
that  one  defenceless  woman  could  have  snored  so  much. 

We  made  so  many  deviations  up  and  down  lanes,  and  were 
such  a  long  time  delivering  a  bedstead  at  a  public-house,  and 
calling  at  other  places,  that  I  was  quite  tired,  and  very  glad. 


,3 


CHARLES  DICKENS  I3I 

when  we  saw  Yarmouth.  It  looked  rather  spongy  and  soppy, 
I  thought,  as  I  carried  my  eye  over  the  great  dull  waste  that 
lay  across  the  river ;  and  I  could  not  help  wondering,  if  the 
world  were  really  as  round  as  my  geography-book  said,  how 
any  part  of  it  came  to  be  so  flat.  But  I  reflected  that  Yar- 
mouth might  be  situated  at  one  of  the  poles  ;  which  would 
account  for  it. 

As  we  drew  a  little  nearer,  and  saw  the  whole  adjacent  pros- 
pect lying  a  straight  low  line  under  the  sky,  I  hinted  to  Peggotty 
that  a  mound  or  so  might  have  improved  it ;  and  also  that  if  the 
land  had  been  a  little  more  separated  from  the  sea,  and  the  town 
and  the  tide  had  not  been  quite  so  much  mixed  up,  like  toast  and 
water,  it  would  have  been  nicer.  But  Peggotty  said,  with  greater 
emphasis  than  usual,  that  w^e  must  take  things  as  we  found  them, 
and  that  for  her  part,  she  was  proud  to  call  herself  a  Yarmouth 
Bloater. 

When  we  got  into  the  street  (which  was  strange  enough  to 
me),  and  smelt  the  fish,  and  pitch,  and  oakum,  and  tar,  and  saw 
the  sailors  walking  about,  and  the  carts  jingling  up  and  down 
over  the  stones,  I  felt  that  I  had  done  so  busy  a  place  an  injus- 
tice ;  and  said  as  much  to  Peggotty,  who  heard  my  expressions 
of  delight  with  great  complacency,  and  told  me  it  was  well 
known  (I  suppose  to  those  who  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  born 
Bloaters),  that  Yarmouth  was,  upon  the  whole,  the  finest  place 
in  the  universe. 

"Here's  my  Am!"  screamed  Peggotty,  "  growed  out  of 
knowledge !  " 

He  was  waiting  for  us,  in  fact,  at  the  public-house  ;  and  asked 
me  how  I  found  myself,  like  an  old  acquaintance.  I  did  not 
feel,  at  first,  that  I  knew  him  as  well  as  he  knew  me,  because  he 
had  never  come  to  our  house  since  the  night  I  was  born,  and 
naturally  he  had  the  advantage  of  me.  But  our  intimacy  was 
much  advanced  by  his  taking  me  on  his  back  to  carry  me  home. 
He  was,  now,  a  huge,  strong  fellow  of  six  feet  high,  broad  in 
proportion,  and  round-shouldered  ;  but  with  a  simp:;ring  boy's 
face  and  curly  light  hair  that  gave  him  quite  a  sheepish  look. 
He  was  dressed  in  a  canvas  jacket,  and  a  pair  of  such  very  stiff 
trousers  that  they  would  have  stood  quite  as  well  alone,  without 


132  DAVID  AND    THE  ARK 

any  legs  in  them.  And  you  couldn't  so  properly  have  said  he 
wore  a  hat,  as  that  he  was  covered  in  a-top,  like  an  old  building, 
with  something  pitchy. 

Ham  carrying  me  on  his  back,  and  a  small  box  of  ours  under 
his  arm,  and  Peggotty  carrying  another  small  box  of  ours,  we 
turned  down  lanes  bestrewn  with  bits  of  chips  and  little  hillocks 
of  sand,  and  went  past  gas-works,  rope-walks,  boat-builders' 
yards,  shipwrights'  yards,  ship-breakers'  yards,  caulkers'  yards, 
riggers'  lofts,  smiths'  forges,  and  a  great  litter  of  such  places, 
until  we  came  out  upon  the  dull  waste  I  had  already  seen  at  a 
distance  ;  when  Ham  said  :  — 

"  Yon's  our  house,  Mas'r  Davy  !  " 

I  looked  in  all  directions,  as  far  as  I  could  stare  over  the  wil- 
derness, and  away  at  the  sea,  and  away  at  the  river,  but  no 
house  could  /  make  out.  There  was  a  black  barge,  or  some 
other  kind  of  superannuated  boat,  not  far  off,  high  and  dry  on  the 
ground,  with  an  iron  funnel  sticking  out  of  it  for  a  chimney  and 
smoking  very  cosily  ;  but  nothing  else  in  the  way  of  a  habitation 
that  was  visible  to  77ie. 

"  That's  not  it  ?  "  said  I.     "  That  ship-looking  thing  ?" 

"  That's  it,  Mas'r  Davy,"  returned  Ham, 

If  it  had  been  Aladdin's  palace,  roc's  Qg^  and  all,  I  suppose 
I  could  not  have  been  more  charmed  with  the  romantic  idea  of 
living  in  it.  There  was  a  delightful  door  cut  in  the  side,  and  it 
was  roofed  in,  and  there  were  Httle  windows  in  it ;  but  the  won- 
derful charm  of  it  was,  that  it  was  a  real  boat  which  had  no 
doubt  been  upon  the  water  hundreds  of  times,  and  which  had 
never  been  intended  to  be  lived  in,  on  dry  land.  That  was  the  cap- 
tivation  of  it  to  me.  If  it  had  ever  been  meant  to  be  lived  in,  I 
might  have  thought  it  small,  or  inconvenient,  or  lonely  ;  but  never 
having  been  designed  for  any  such  use,  it  became  a  perfect 
abode. 

It  was  beautifully  clean  inside,  and  as  tidy  as  possible. 
There  was  a  table,  and  a  Dutch  clock,  and  a  chest  of  drawers, 
and  on  the  chest  of  drawers  there  was  a  tea-tray  with  a  painting 
on  it  of  a  lady  with  a  parasol,  taking  a  walk  with  a  military- 
looking  child  who  was  trundling  a  hoop.  The  tray  was  kept 
from  tumbling  down,  by  a  Bible  ;  and  the  tray,  if  it  had  tumbled 


CHARLES  DICKENS  1 33 

down,  would  have  smashed  a  quantity  of  cups  and  saucers  and 
a  teapot  that  were  grouped  around  the  book.  On  the  walls  there 
were  some  common  colored  pictures,  framed  and  glazed,  of 
scripture  subjects ;  such  as  I  have  never  seen  since  in  the 
hands  of  pedlars,  without  seeing  the  whole  interior  of  Peggotty's 
brother's  house  again,  at  one  view.  Abraham  in  red  going  to 
sacrifice  Isaac  in  blue,  and  Daniel  in  yellow  cast  into  a  den  of 
green  lions,  were  the  most  prominent  of  these.  Over  the  little 
mantle-shelf  was  a  picture  of  the  Sarah  Jane  lugger,  built  at 
Sunderland,  with  a  real  little  wooden  stern  stuck  on  to  it ;  a 
work  of  art,  combining  composition  with  carpentry,  which  I  con- 
sidered to  be  one  of  the  most  enviable  possessions  that  the 
world  could  afford.  There  were  some  hooks  in  the  beams  of 
the  ceiling,  the  use  of  which  I  did  not  divine  then  ;  and  some 
lockers  and  boxes  and  conveniences  of  that  sort,  which  served 
for  seats  and  eked  out  the  chairs. 

All  this,  I  saw  in  the  first  glance  after  I  crossed  the  thres- 
hold—  childlike,  according  to  my  theory — and  then  Peggotty 
opened  a  little  door  and  showed  me  my  bedroom.  It  was  the 
completest  and  most  desirable  bedroom  ever  seen  —  in  the  stern 
of  the  vessel ;  with  a  little  window,  where  the  rudder  used  to  go 
through  ;  a  little  looking-glass,  just  the  right  height  for  me, 
nailed  against  the  wall,  and  framed  with  oyster-shells  ;  a  little 
bed,  which  there  was  just  room  enough  to  get  into,  and  a  nose- 
gay of  seaweed  in  a  blue  mug  on  the  table.  The  walls  were 
whitewashed  as  white  as  milk,  and  the  patchwork  counterpane 
made  my  eyes  quite  ache  with  its  brightness.  One  thing  I 
particularly  noticed  in  this  delightful  house  was  the  smell  of 
fish  ;  which  was  so  searching  that  when  I  took  out  my  pocket- 
handkerchief  to  wipe  my  nose,  I  found  it  smelt  exactly  as  if  it 
had  wrapped  up  a  lobster.  On  my  imparting  this  discovery  in 
confidence  to  Peggotty,  she  informed  me  that  her  brother  dealt 
in  lobsters,  crabs,  and  crawfish  ;  and  I  afterwards  found  that  a 
heap  of  these  creatures,  in  a  state  of  wonderful  conglomeration 
with  one  another,  and  never  leaving  off  pinching  whatever  they 
laid  hold  of,  were  usually  to  be  found  in  a  little  wooden  out- 
house where  the  pots  and  kettles  were  kept. 

We  were  welcomed  by  a  very  civil  woman  in  a  white  apron, 


134  DAVID  AND    THE  ARK 

whom  I  had  seen  curtseying  at  the  door  when  I  was  on  Ham's 
back,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off.  Likewise  by  a  most  beauti- 
ful little  girl  (or  I  thought  her  so)  with  a  necklace  of  blue  beads 
on,  who  wouldn't  let  me  kiss  her  when  I  offered  to,  but  ran  away 
and  hid  herself.  By  and  by,  when  we  had  dined  in  a  sumptuous 
manner  off  boiled  dabs,  melted  butter,  and  potatoes,  with  a  chop 
for  me,  a  hairy  man  with  a  very  good-natured  face  came  home. 
As  he  called  Peggotty  "  Lass,"  and  gave  her  a  hearty  smack  on 
the  cheek,  I  had  no  doubt,  from  the  general  propriety  of  her  con- 
duct, that  he  was  her  brother  ;  and  so  he  turned  out  —  being  pres- 
ently introduced  to  me  as  Mr.  Peggotty,  the  master  of  the  house. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  "You'll  find  us 
rough,  sir,  but  you'll  find  us  ready." 

I  thanked  him,  and  replied  that  I  was  sure  I  should  be  happy 
in  such  a  delightful  place. 

"  How's  your  ma,  sir  ?  "  said  Mr,  Peggotty.  "  Did  you  leave 
her  pretty  jolly?" 

I  gave  Mr.  Peggotty  to  understand  that  she  was  as  jolly  as  I 
could  wish,  and  that  she  desired  her  compliments  —  which  was 
a  polite  fiction  on  my  part. 

"  I'm  much  obleeged  to  her,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 
"  Well,  sir,  if  you  can  make  out  here,  for  a  fortnut,  'long  wi' 
her,"  nodding  at  his  sister,  "  and  Ham,  and  little  Em'ly,  we 
shall  be  proud  of  your  company." 

Having  done  the  honors  of  his  house  in  this  hospitable  manner, 
Mr.  Peggotty  went  out  to  wash  himself  in  a  kettleful  of  hot  water, 
remarking  that  "  cold  would  never  get  his  muck  off."  He  soon 
returned,  greatly  improved  in  appearance  ;  but  so  rubicund,  that 
I  couldn't  help  thinking  his  face  had  this  in  common  with  the 
lobsters,  crabs,  and  crawfish,  —  that  it  went  into  the  hot  water 
very  black,  and  came  out  very  red. 

After  tea,  when  the  door  was  shut  and  all  was  made  snug 
(the  nights  being  cold  and  misty  now),  it  seemed  to  me  the  most 
delicious  retreat  that  the  imagination  of  man  could  conceive. 
To  hear  the  wind  getting  up  out  at  sea,  to  know  that  the  fog 
was  creeping  over  the  desolate  fiat  outside,  and  to  look  at  the 
fire,  and  think  that  there  was  no  house  near  but  this  one,  and 
this  one  a  boat,  was  like  enchantment.     Little  Em'ly  had  over- 


CHARLES  DICKENS  I35 

come  her  shyness,  and  was  sitting  by  my  side  upon  the  lowest 
and  least  of  the  lockers,  which  was  just  large  enough  for  us  two, 
and  just  fitted  into  the  chimney  corner.  Mrs.  Peggotty  with 
the  white  apron  was  knitting  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire. 
Peggotty  at  her  needle-work  was  as  much  at  home  with  Saint 
Paul's  and  the  bit  of  wax-candle  as  if  they  had  never  known 
any  other  roof.  Ham,  who  had  been  giving  me  my  first  lesson 
in  all-fours,  was  trying  to  recollect  a  scheme  for  telling  fortunes 
with  the  dirty  cards,  and  was  printing  off  fishy  impressions  of 
his  thumb  on  all  the  cards  he  turned.  Mr.  Peggotty  was  smok- 
ing his  pipe.    I  felt  it  was  a  time  for  conversation  and  confidence. 

"Mr.  Peggotty,"  says  I. 

"  Sir,"  says  he, 

"  Did  you  give  your  son  the  name  of  Ham,  because  you  lived 
in  a  sort  of  ark?  " 

Mr.  Peggotty  seemed  to  think  it  a  deep  idea,  but  answered:  — 

"  No,  sir.     I  never  giv  him  no  name." 

"  Who  gave  him  that  name,  then  ?  "  said  I,  putting  question 
number  two  of  the  catechism  to  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"  Why,  sir,  his  father  giv  it  him,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"  I  thought  you  were  his  father  !  " 

"  My  brother  Joe  was  his  father,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"  Dead,  Mr.  Peggotty  ?  "  I  hinted,  after  a  respectful  pause. 

"  Drowndead,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

I  was  very  much  surprised  that  Mr.  Peggotty  was  not  Ham's 
father,  and  began  to  wonder  whether  I  was  mistaken  about  his 
relationship  to  anybody  else  there.  I  was  so  curious  to  know, 
that  I  made  up  my  mind  to  have  it  out  with  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"  Litde  Em'ly,"  I  said,  glancing  at  her.  "  She  is  your  daugh- 
ter, isn't  she,  Mr.  Peggotty  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.     My  brother-in-law,  Tom,  was  her  father." 

I  couldn't  help  it.  "  —  Dead,  Mr.  Peggotty  ?  "  I  hinted,  after 
another  respectful  silence. 

"Drowndead,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

I  felt  the  difficulty  of  resuming  the  subject,  but  had  not  got 
to  the  bottom  of  it  yet,  and  must  get  to  the  bottom  somehow. 
So  I  said  :  — 

"  Haven't  you  any  children,  Mr.  Peggotty  ?  " 


136  DAVID  AND    THE  ARK 

"  No,  master,"  he  answered,  with  a  short  laugh.  "  I'm  a 
bacheldore." 

"A  bachelor!"  I  said,  astonished.  "Why,  who's  that,  Mr. 
Peggotty  ? "  pointing  to  the  person  in  the  apron  who  was 
knitting. 

"  That's  Missis  Gummidge,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"  Gummidge,  Mr.  Peggotty  ?  " 

But  at  this  point  Peggotty  —  I  mean  my  own  peculiar  Peg' 
gotty  —  made  such  impressive  motions  to  me  not  to  ask  any 
more  questions,  that  I  could  only  sit  and  look  at  all  the  silent 
company,  until  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed.  Then,  in  the  privacy 
of  my  own  little  cabin,  she  informed  me  that  Ham  and  Em'ly 
were  an  orphan  nephew  and  niece,  whom  my  host  had  at  differ- 
ent times  adopted  in  their  childhood,  when  they  were  left  desti- 
tute ;  and  that  Mrs.  Gummidge  was  the  widow  of  his  partner  in 
a  boat,  who  had  died  very  poor.  He  was  but  a  poor  man  him- 
self, said  Peggotty,  but  as  good  as  gold  and  as  true  as  steel  — 
those  were  her  similes.  The  only  subject,  she  informed  me,  on 
which  he  ever  showed  a  violent  temper  or  swore  an  oath,  was 
this  generosity  of  his  ;  and  if  it  were  ever  referred  to,  by  any 
one  of  them,  he  struck  the  table  a  heavy  blow  with  his  right 
hand  (had  split  it  on  one  such  occasion),  and  swore  a  dreadful 
oath  that  he  would  be  "  Gormed  "  if  he  didn't  cut  and  run  for 
good,  if  it  was  ever  mentioned  again.  It  appeared,  in  answer  to 
my  inquiries,  that  nobody  had  the  least  idea  of  the  etymology  of 
this  terrible  verb  passive  to  be  gormed  ;  but  that  they  all  regarded 
it  as  constituting  a  most  solemn  imprecation. 

I  was  very  sensible  of  my  entertainer's  goodness,  and  listened 
to  the  women's  going  to  bed  in  another  little  crib  like  mine  at 
the  opposite  end  of  the  boat,  and  to  him  and  Ham  hanging  up 
two  hammocks  for  themselves  on  the  hooks  I  had  noticed  in  the 
roof,  in  a  very  luxurious  state  of  mind,  enhanced  by  my  being 
sleepy.  As  slumber  gradually  stole  upon  me,  I  heard  the  wind 
howling  out  at  sea  and  coming  on  across  the  flat  so  fiercely,  that 
I  had  a  lazy  apprehension  of  the  great  deep  rising  in  the  night. 
But  I  bethought  myself  that  I  was  in  a  boat,  after  all ;  and  that 
a  man  like  Mr.  Peggotty  was  not  a  bad  person  to  have  on  board 
if  anything  did  happen. 


CHARLES  DICKENS  1 37 

Nothing  happened,  however,  worse  than  morning.  Ahiiost  as 
soon  as  it  shone  upon  the  oyster-shell  frame  of  my  mirror  I  was 
out  of  bed,  and  out  with  little  Em'ly,  picking  up  stones  upon  the 
beach. 

"  You're  quite  a  sailor,  I  suppose  ?  "  I  said  to  Em'ly.  I  don't 
know  that  I  supposed  anything  of  the  kind,  but  I  felt  it  an  act 
of  gallantry  to  say  something  ;  and  a  shining  sail  close  to  us 
made  such  a  pretty  little  image  of  itself,  at  the  moment,  in  her 
bright  eye,  that  it  came  into  my  head  to  say  this. 

"  No,"  replied  Em'ly,  shaking  her  head,  "  I'm  afraid  of  the  sea." 

"  Afraid !  "  I  said,  with  a  becoming  air  of  boldness,  and  look- 
ing very  big  at  the  mighty  ocean.     "  /an't !  " 

"  Ah  !  but  it's  cruel,"  said  Em'ly.  "  I  have  seen  it  very  cruel 
to  some  of  our  men.  I  have  seen  it  tear  a  boat  as  big  as  our 
house  all  to  pieces." 

"  I  hope  it  wasn't  the  boat  that —  " 

"That  father  was  drownded  in?"  said  Em'ly.  "No.  Not 
that  one,  I  never  see  that  boat." 

"  Nor  him  ?  "  I  asked  her. 

Little  Em'ly  shook  her  head.     "  Not  to  remember !  " 

Here  was  a  coincidence  !  I  immediately  went  into  an  expla- 
nation how  I  had  never  seen  my  own  father ;  and  how  my 
mother  and  I  had  always  lived  by  ourselves  in  the  happiest 
state  imaginable,  and  lived  so  then,  and  always  meant  to  live 
so ;  and  how  my  father's  grave  was  in  the  churchyard  near  our 
house,  and  shaded  by  a  tree,  beneath  the  boughs  of  which  I  had 
walked  and  heard  the  birds  sing  many  a  pleasant  morning.  But 
there  were  some  differences  between  Em'ly's  orphanhood  and 
mine,  it  appeared.  She  had  lost  her  mother  before  her  father ; 
and  where  her  father's  grave  was  no  one  knew,  except  that  it 
was  somewhere  in  the  depths  of  the  sea. 

"  Besides,"  said  Em'ly,  as  she  looked  about  for  shells  and 
pebbles,  "  your  father  was  a  gentleman  and  your  mother  is  a 
lady ;  and  my  father  was  a  fisherman  and  my  mother  was  a 
fisherman's  daughter,  and  my  uncle  Dan  is  a  fisherman." 

"  Dan  is  Mr.  Peggotty,  is  he  ?  "  said  I. 

"Uncle  Dan  —  yonder,"  answered  Em'ly,  nodding  at  the 
boat-house. 


138  DAVID  AND    THE  ARK 

"  Yes.    I  mean  him.    He  must  be  very  good,  I  should  think," 

"  Good  ?  "  said  Em'ly.     "  If  I  was  ever  to  be  a  lady,  I'd  give 

him  a  sky-blue  coat  with  diamond  buttons,  nankeen  trousers,  a 

red  velvet  waistcoat,  a  cocked  hat,  a  large  gold  watch,  a  silver 

pipe,  and  a  box  of  money." 

I  said  I  had  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Peggotty  well  deserved  these 
treasures.     I  must  acknowledge  that  I  felt  it  difficult  to  picture 
him  quite  at  his  ease  in  the  raiment  proposed  for  him  by  his 
grateful  little  niece,  and  that  I  was  particularly  doubtful  of  the 
policy  of  the  cocked  hat ;  but  I  kept  these  sentiments  to  myself. 
Little  Em'ly  had  stopped  and  looked  up  at  the  sky  in  her 
enumeration  of  these  articles,  as  if  they  were  a  glorious  vision. 
We  went  on  again,  picking  up  shells  and  pebbles. 
"  You  would  like  to  be  a  lady  ?  "  I  said. 
Em'ly  looked  at  me,  and  laughed  and  nodded  "yes." 
"  I  should   like   it  very  much.     We  would  all  be  gentlefolks 
together,  then.     Me,  and  uncle,  and  Ham,  and  Mrs.  Gummidge. 
We  wouldn't  mind  then,  when  there  come  stormy  weather.  —  Not 
for  our  own  sakes,  I  mean.     We  would  for  the  poor  fishermen's, 
to  be  sure,  and  we'd  help  'em  with  money  when  they  come  to 
any  hurt." 

This  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  very  satisfactory  and  therefore 
not  at  all  improbable  picture.  I  expressed  my  pleasure  in  the 
contemplation  of  it,  and  little  Em'ly  was  emboldened  to  say,  shyly, 
"  Don't  you  think  you  are  afraid  of  the  sea,  now  ?  " 
It  was  quiet  enough  to  reassure  me,  but  I  have  no  doubt  if  I 
had  seen  a  moderately  large  wave  come  tumbling  in,  I  should 
have  taken  to  my  heels,  with  an  awful  recollection  of  her 
drowned  relations.  However,  I  said  "  No,"  and  I  added, 
"You  don't  seem  to  be,  either,  though  you  say  you  are;"  — 
for  she  was  walking  much  too  near  the  brink  of  a  sort  of  old 
jetty  or  wooden  causeway  we  had  strolled  upon,  and  I  was 
afraid  of  her  falling  over. 

"  I'm  not  afraid  in  this  way,"  said  little  Em'ly.  "  But  I  wake 
when  it  blows,  and  tremble  to  think  of  Uncle  Dan  and  Ham, 
and  believe  I  hear  'em  crying  out  for  help.  That's  why  I  should 
like  so  much  to  be  a  lady.  But  I'm  not  afraid  in  this  way. 
Not  a  bit.     Look  here !  " 


CHARLES  DICKENS  1 39 

She  started  from  my  side,  and  ran  along  a  jagged  timber 
which  protruded  from  the  place  we  stood  upon,  and  overhung 
the  deep  water  at  some  height,  without  the  least  defence.  The 
incident  is  so  impressed  on  my  remembrance,  that  if  I  were  a 
draughtsman  I  could  draw  its  form  here,  I  daresay,  accurately 
as  it  was  that  day,  and  little  Em'ly  springing  forward  to  her  de- 
struction (as  it  appeared  to  me),  with  a  look  that  I  have  never 
forgotten,  directed  far  out  to  sea. 

The  light,  bold,  fluttering  little  figure  turned  and  came  back 
safe  to  me,  and  I  soon  laughed  at  my  fears,  and  at  the  cry  I 
had  uttered  ;  fruitlessly  in  any  case,  for  there  was  no  one  near. 
But  there  have  been  times  since,  in  my  manhood,  many  times 
there  have  been,  when  I  have  thought,  Is  it  possible,  among 
the  possibilities  of  hidden  things,  that  in  the  sudden  rashness  .of 
the  child  and  her  wild  look  so  far  off,  there  was  any  merciful 
attraction  of  her  into  danger,  any  tempting  her  towards  him 
permitted  on  the  part  of  her  dead  father,  that  her  life  might 
have  a  chance  of  ending  that  clay.  There  has  been  a  time 
since  when  I  have  wondered  whether,  if  the  life  before  her 
could  have  been  revealed  to  me  at  a  glance,  and  so  revealed  as 
that  a  child  could  fully  comprehend  it,  and  if  her  preservation 
could  have  depended  on  a  motion  of  my  hand,  I  ought  to  have 
held  it  up  to  save  her.  There  has  been  a  time  since  —  I  do  not 
say  it  lasted  long,  but  it  has  been  —  when  I  have  asked  myself 
the  question,  Would  it  have  been  better  for  little  Em'ly  to  have 
had  the  waters  close  above  her  head  that  morning  in  my  sight, 
and  when  I  have  answered  Yes. 

This  may  be  premature.  I  have  set  it  down  too  soon,  per- 
haps.    But  let  it  stand. 

We  strolled  a  long  way,  and  loaded  ourselves  with  things  that 
we  thought  curious,  and  put  some  stranded  star-fish  carefully 
back  into  the  water — I  hardly  know  enough  of  the  race  at  this 
moment  to  be  quite  certain  whether  they  had  reason  to  feel 
obliged  to  us  for  doing  so,  or  the  reverse  —  and  then  made  our 
way  home  to  Mr.  Peggotty's  dwelling.  We  stopped  under  the 
lee  of  the  lobster-outhouse  to  exchange  an  innocent  kiss,  and 
went  in  to  breakfast  glowing  with  health  and  pleasure. 

"  Like  two  young  mavishes,"  Mr.  Peggotty  said.     I  knew  this 


140  DAVID  AND    THE  ARk 

meant,  in  our  local  dialect,  like  two  young  thrushes,  and  re- 
ceived it  as  a  compliment. 

Of  course  I  was  in  love  with  little  Em'ly.  I  am  sure  I  loved 
that  baby  quite  as  tenderly,  with  greater  purity  and  more  dis- 
interestedness, than  can  enter  into  the  best  love  of  a  later  time 
of  life,  high  and  ennobling  as  it  is.  I  am  sure  my  fancy  raised 
up  something  round  that  blue-eyed  mite  of  a  child,  which 
etherealised,  and  made  a  very  angel  of  her.  If,  any  sunny  fore- 
noon, she  had  spread  a  little  pair  of  wings  and  flown  away  be- 
fore my  eyes,  I  don't  think  I  should  have  regarded  it  as  much 
more  than  I  had  reason  to  expect. 

We  used  to  walk  about  that  dim  old  flat  at  Yarmouth  in  a 
loving  manner,  hours  and  hours.  The  days  sported  by  us,  as 
if- Time  had  not  grown  up  himself  yet,  but  were  a  child  too,  and 
always  at  play.  I  told  Em'ly  I  adored  her,  and  that  unless  she 
confessed  she  adored  me  I  should  be  reduced  to  the  necessity  of 
killing  myself  with  a  sword.  She  said  she  did,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  she  did. 

As  to  any  sense  of  inequality,  or  youthfulness,  or  other  diffi- 
culty in  our  way,  little  Em'ly  and  I  had  no  such  trouble,  because 
we  had  no  future.  We  made  no  more  provision  for  growing 
older,  than  we  did  for  growing  younger.  We  were  the  admira- 
tion of  Mrs.  Gummidge  and  Peggotty,  who  used  to  whisper  of 
an  evening  when  we  sat,  lovingly,  on  our  little  locker  side  by 
side,  "  Lor !  wasn't  it  beautiful !  "  Mr.  Peggotty  smiled  at  us 
from  behind  his  pipe,  and  Ham  grinned  all  the  evening  and  did 
nothing  else.  They  had  something  of  the  sort  of  pleasure  in  us, 
I  suppose,  that  they  might  have  had  in  a  pretty  toy,  or  a  pocket 
model  of  the  Colosseum. 

I  soon  found  out  that  Mrs.  Gummidge  did  not  always  make  her- 
self so  agreeable  as  she  might  have  been  expected  to  do,  under 
the  circumstances  of  her  residence  wdth  Mr.  Peggotty.  Mrs.  Gum- 
midge's  was  rather  a  fretful  disposition,  and  she  whimpered  more 
sometimes  than  was  comfortable  for  other  parties  in  so  small 
an  establishment.  I  was  very  sorry  for  her  ;  but  there  were  mo- 
ments when  it  would  have  been  more  agreeable,  I  thought,  if 
Mrs.  Gummidge  had  had  a  convenient  apartment  of  her  own  to 
retire  to,  and  had  stopped  there  until  her  spirits  revived. 


CHARLES  DICKENS  I4I 

Mr.  Peggotty  went  occasionally  to  a  public-house  called  The 
Willing  Mind.  I  discovered  this,  by  his  being  out  on  the  sec- 
ond or  third  evening  of  our  visit,  and  by  Mrs.  Gummidge's  look- 
ing up  at  the  Dutch  clock,  between  eight  and  nine,  and  saying 
he  was  there,  and  that,  what  was  more,  she  had  known  in  the 
morning  he  would  go  there. 

Mrs.  Gummidge  had  been  in  a  low  state  all  day,  and  had 
burst  into  tears  in  the  forenoon,  when  the  fire  smoked.  "  I  am 
a  lone  lorn  creetur',"  were  Mrs.  Gummidge's  words,  when  that 
unpleasant  occurrence  took  place,  "  and  everythink  goes  con- 
trairy  with  me." 

"Oh,  it'll  soon  leave  off,"  said  Peggotty  —  I  again  mean  our 
Peggotty  —  "  and  besides,  you  know,  it's  not  more  disagreeable 
to  you  than  to  us." 

"  I  feel  it  more,"  said  Mrs.  Gummidge. 

It  was  a  very  cold  day,  with  cutting  blasts  of  wind.  Mrs. 
Gummidge's  peculiar  corner  of  the  fireside  seemed  to  me  to  be 
the  warmest  and  snuggest  in  the  place,  as  her  chair  was  cer- 
tainly the  easiest,  but  it  didn't  suit  her  that  day  at  all.  She 
was  constantly  complaining  of  the  cold,  and  of  its  occasioning  a 
visitation  in  her  back  which  she  called  "the  creeps."  At  last 
she  shed  tears  on  that  subject,  and  said  again  that  she  was  "  a 
lone  lorn  creetur'  and  everythink  went  contrairy  with  her." 

"  It  is  certainly  very  cold,"  said  Peggotty.  "  Everybody  must 
feel  it  so." 

"  I  feel  it  more  than  other  people,"  said  Mrs.  Gummidge. 

So  at  dinner ;  when  Mrs.  Gummidge  was  always  helped 
immediately  after  me,  to  whom  the  preference  was  given  as  a 
visitor  of  distinction.  The  fish  were  small  and  bony,  and  the 
potatoes  were  a  little  burnt.  We  all  acknowledged  that  we  felt 
this  something  of  a  disappointment ;  but  Mrs.  Gummidge  said 
she  felt  it  more  than  we  did,  and  shed  tears  again,  and  made 
that  former  declaration  with  great  bitterness. 

Accordingly,    when    Mr.    Peggotty   came    home    about   nine 

o'clock,  this  unfortunate  Mrs.  Gummidge  was  knitting  in  her 

,  corner  in  a  very  wretched  and  miserable  condition.     Peggotty 

had  been  working  cheerfully.     Ham  had  been  patching  up  a 

great  pair  of  water-boots  ;    and  I,  with  little  Em'ly  by  my  side, 


142  DAVID  AND    THE  ARK 


had  been  reading  to  them.'  Mrs.  Gummidge  had  never  made 
any  other  remark  than  a  forlorn  sigh,  and  had  never  raised  her 
eyes  since  tea. 

"  Well,  Mates,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  taking  his  seat,  "  and  how 
are  you  ?  " 

We  all  said  something,  or  looked  something,  to  welcome  him, 
except  Mrs.  Gummidge,  who  only  shook  her  head  over  her  knit- 
ting. 

"  What's  amiss  ?  "  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  a  clap  of  his  hands. 
"  Cheer  up,  old  Mawther  !  "     (Mr.  Peggotty  meant  old  girl.) 

Mrs.  Gummidge  did  not  appear  to  be  able  to  cheer  up.  She 
took  out  an  old  black  silk  handkerchief  and  wiped  her  eyes  ; 
but  instead  of  putting  it  in  her  pocket,  kept  it  out,  and  wiped 
them  again,  and  still  kept  it  out,  ready  for  use. 
"  What's  amiss,  dame  ?  "  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 
"  Nothing,"  returned  Mrs.  Gummidge.  "  You've  come  from 
The  Willing  Mind,  Dan'l  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  I've  took  a  short  spell  at  The  Willing  Mind  to- 
night," said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  should  drive  you  there,"  said  Mrs.  Gummidge. 
"  Drive  !     I  don't  wan't  no  driving,"  returned  Mr.  Peggotty, 
with  an  honest  laugh.     "  I  only  go  too  ready." 

"  Very  ready,"  said  Mrs.  Gummidge,  shaking  her  head,  and 
wiping  her  eyes.  "Yes,  yes,  very  ready.  I  am  sorry  it  should 
be  along  of  me  that  you're  so  ready." 

"Along  o'  you?  It  an't  along  o'  you!"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 
"  Don't  ye  believe  a  bit  on  it." 

"Yes,  yes,  it  is,"  cried  Mrs.  Gummidge.  "I  know  what  I 
am.  I  know  that  I  am  a  lone  lorn  creetur'  and  not  only  that 
everythink  goes  contrairy  with  me,  but  that  I  go  contrairy  with 
everybody.  Yes,  yes.  I  feel  more  than  other  people  do,  and  I 
show  it  more.     It's  my  misfortun'." 

I  really  couldn't  help  thinking,  as  I  sat  taking  in  all  this,  that 
the  misfortune  extended  to  some  other  members  of  that  family 
besides  Mrs.  Gummidge.  But  Mr.  Peggotty  made  no  such  re- 
tort, only  answering  with  another  entreaty  to  Mrs.  Gummidge  to 
cheer  up. 

"  I  an't  what  I  could  wish  myself  to  be,"  said  Mrs.  Gum- 


CHARLES  DICKENS  1 43 

midge.  "  I  am  far  from  it.  I  know  what  I  am.  My  troubles 
has  made  me  contrairy.  I  feel  my  troubles,  and  they  make  me 
contrairy.  I  wish  I  didn't  feel  'em,  but  I  do.  I  wish  I  could 
be  hardened  to  'em,  but  I  an't.  I  make  the  house  uncomfort- 
able. I  don't  wonder  at  it.  I've  made  your  sister  so  all  day,  and 
Master  Davy." 

Here  I  was  suddenly  melted,  and  roared  out,  "  No,  you  haven't, 
Mrs.  Gummidge,"  in  great  mental  distress. 

"  It's  far  from  right  that  I  should  do  it,"  said  Mrs.  Gummidge. 
"  It  an't  a  fit  return.  I  had  better  go  into  the  house  and  die. 
I  am  a  lone  lorn  creetur',  and  had  much  better  not  make  myself 
contrairy  here.  If  thinks  must  go  contrairy  with  me,  and  I 
must  go  contrairy  myself,  let  me  go  contrairy  in  my  parish. 
Dan'l,  I'd  better  go  into  the  house,  and  die  and  be  a  riddance!" 

Mrs.  Gummidge  retired  with  these  words,  and  betook  herself 
to  bed.  When  she  was  gone,  Mr.  Peggotty,  who  had  not  ex- 
hibited a  trace  of  any  feeling  but  the  profoundest  sympathy, 
looked  round  upon  us,  and  nodding  his  head  with  a  lively 
expression  of  that  sentiment  still  animating  his  face,  said  in  a 
whisper : 

"  She's  been  thinking  of  the  old  'un  !  " 

I  did  not  quite  understand  what  old  one  Mrs.  Gummidge  was 
supposed  to  have  fixed  her  mind  upon,  until  Peggotty,  on  see- 
ing me  to  bed,  explained  that  it  was  the  late  Mr.  Gummidge  ; 
and  that  her  brother  always  took  that  for  a  received  truth  on 
such  occasions,  and  that  it  always  had  a  moving  effect  upon 
him.  Some  time  after  he  was  in  his  hammock  that  night,  I 
heard  him  myself  repeat  to  Ham  :  "Poor  thing!  She's  been 
thinking  of  the  old  'un  !  "  And  whenever  Mrs.  Gummidge  was 
overcome  in  a  similar  manner  during  the  remainder  of  our  stay 
(which  happened  some  few  times),  he  always  said  the  same 
thing  in  extenuation  of  the  circumstance,  and  always  with  the 
tenderest  commiseration. 

So  the  fortnight  slipped  away,  varied  by  nothing  but  the  varia- 
tion of  the  tide,  which  altered  Mr.  Peggotty's  times  of  going  out 
and  coming  in,  and  altered  Ham's  engagements  also.  When  the 
latter  was  unemployed,  he  sometimes  walked  with  us  to  show 
us  the  boats  and  ships,  and  once  or  twice  he  took  us  for  a  row. 


144  PENDENNIS  FALLS  LN  LOVE 

I  don't  know  why  one  slight  set  of  impressions  should  be  more 
particularly  associated  with  a  place  than  another,  though  I  be- 
lieve this  obtains  with  most  people,  in  reference  especially  to  the 
associations  of  their  childhood.  I  never  hear  the  name,  or  read 
the  name,  of  Yarmouth,  but  I  am  reminded  of  a  certain  Sunday 
morning  on  the  beach,  the  bells  ringing  for  church,  little  Em'ly 
leaning  on  my  shoulder.  Ham  lazily  dropping  stones  into  the 
water,  and  the  sun,  away  at  sea,  just  breaking  through  the  heavy 
mist,  and  showing  us  the  ships,  like  their  own  shadows. 


PENDENNIS    FALLS    IN    LOVE 

WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY 

[From  chapters  3  and  4  of  The  Flistory  of  Pendennis  :  his  Fortunes  and 
Misforl7ines,  his  Friends  and  his  Greatest  Enemy,  1849-50.] 

While  these  natural  sentiments  were  waging  war  and  trouble  in 
honest  Pen's  bosom,  it  chanced  one  day  that  he  rode  into  Chat- 
teris for  the  purpose  of  carrying  to  the  County  Chronicle  a  tre- 
mendous and  thrilling  poem  for  the  next  week's  paper;  and  putting 
up  his  horse,  according  to  custom,  at  the  stables  of  the  George 
Hotel  there,  he  fell  in  with  an  old  acquaintance.  A  grand  black 
tandem,  with  scarlet  wheels,  came  rattling  into  the  inn  yard,  as 
Pen  stood  there  in  converse  with  the  hostler  about  Rebecca ;  and 
the  voice  of  the  driver  called  out,  "  Hallo,  Pendennis,  is  that 
you  ?  "  in  a  loud  patronizing  manner.  Pen  had  some  difficulty 
in  recognizing,  under  the  broad-brimmed  hat  and  the  vast  great- 
coats and  neckcloths,  with  which  the  new  comer  was  habited,  the 
person  and  figure  of  his  quondam  school-fellow,  Mr.  Foker. 

A  year's  absence  had  made  no  small  difference  in  that  gentle- 
man. A  youth  who  had  been  deservedly  whipped  a  few  months 
previously,  and  who  spent  his  pocket-money  on  tarts  and  hard- 
bake, now  appeared  before  Pen  in  one  of  those  costumes  to  which 
public  consent,  which  I  take  to  be  quite  as  influential  in  this  re- 
spect as  Johnson's  Dictionary,  has  awarded  the  title  of  "  Swell." 
He  had  a  bull-dog  between  his  legs,  and  in  his  scarlet  shawl  neck- 
cloth was  a  pin  representing  another  bull-dog  in  gold  :  he  wore  a 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY  145 

fur  waistcoat  laced  over  with  gold  chains  ;  a  green  cut-away  coat 
with  basket  buttons,  and  a  white  upper-coat  ornamented  with 
cheese-plate  buttons,  on  each  of  which  was  engraved  some  stirring 
incident  of  the  road  or  the  chase  ;  all  of  which  ornaments  set  off 
this  young  fellow's  figure  to  such  advantage  that  you  would  hesi- 
tate to  say  which  character  in  life  he  most  resembled,  and  whether 
he  was  a  boxer  en  goguette^  or  a  coachman  in  his  gala  suit. 

"  Left  that  place  for  good,  Pendennis  ?"  Mr.  Foker  said,  descend- 
ing from  his  landau  and  giving  Pendennis  a  finger. 

"  Yes,  this  year  or  more,"  Pen  said. 

"  Beastly  old  hole,"  Mr.  Foker  remarked.  "  Hate  it.  Hate 
the  Doctor ;  hate  Towzer,  the  second  master :  hate  everybody 
there.     Not  a  fit  place  for  a  gentleman." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Pen,  with  an  air  of  the  utmost  consequence. 

"  By  gad,  sir,  I  sometimes  dream,  now,  that  the  Doctor's  walk- 
ing into  me,"  Foker  continued  (and  Pen  smiled  as  he  thought 
that  he  himself  had  likewise  fearful  dreams  of  this  nature). 
"  When  I  think  of  the  diet  there,  by  gad,  sir,  I  wonder  how  I 
stood  it.  Mangy  mutton,  brutal  beef,  pudding  on  Thursdays  and 
Sundays,  and  that  fit  to  poison  you.  Just  look  at  my  leader  — 
did  you  ever  see  a  prettier  animal?  Drove  over  from  Baymouth. 
Came  the  nine  mile  in  two-and-forty  minutes.  Not  bad  going, 
sir." 

"  Are  you  stopping  at  Baymouth,  Foker?  "  Pendennis  asked. 

"  Pm  coaching  there,"  said  the  other  with  a  nod. 

"  What?"  asked  Pen,  and  in  a  tone  of  such  wonder  that  Foker 
burst  out  laughing,  and  said,  "  He  was  blowed  if  he  didn't  think 
Pen  was  such  a  flat  as  not  to  know  what  coaching  meant." 

"  Fm  come  dbwn  with  a  coach  from  Oxbridge.  A  tutor,  don't 
you  see,  old  boy?  He's  coaching  me,  and  some  other  men,  for 
the  little  go.  Me  and  Spavin  have  the  drag  between  us.  And  I 
thought  Fd  just  tool  over,  and  go  to  the  play.  Did  you  ever  see 
Rowkins  do  the  hornpipe?"  and  Mr.  Foker  began  to  perform 
some  steps  of  that  popular  dance  in  the  inn  yard,  looking  round 
for  the  sympathy  of  his  groom,  and  the  stable  men. 

Pen  thought  he  would  like  to  go  to  the  play  too :  and  could 
ride  home  afterwards,  as  there  was  a  moonlight.     So  he  accepted 

1  [In  good  humor.l 
L 


146  PENDENNIS  FALLS  LN  LOVE 

Foker's  invitation  to  dinner,  and  the  young  men  entered  the  inn 
together,  where  Mr.  Foker  stopped  at  the  bar,  and  called  upon 
Miss  Rummer,  the  landlady's  fair  daughter,  who  presided  there,  to 
give  him  a  glass  of  "his  mixture." 

Pen  and  his  family  had  been  known  at  the  George  ever  since 
they  came  into  the  county;  and  Mr.  Pendennis's  carriage  and 
horses  always  put  up  there  when  he  paid  a  visit  to  the  county  town. 
The  landlady  dropped  the  heir  of  Fairoaks  a  very  respectful  cour- 
tesy, and  complimented  him  upon  his  growth  and  manly  appear- 
ance, and  asked  news  of  the  family  at  Fairoaks,  and  of  Dr.  Portman 
and  the  Clavering  people,  to  all  of  which  questions  the  young 
gentleman  answered  with  much  affability.  But  he  spoke  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Rummer  with  that  sort  of  good  nature  with  which  a 
young  Prince  addresses  his  father's  subjects  ;  never  dreaming  that 
those  bonnes  gens'^  were  his  equals  in  life. 

Mr.  Foker's  behaviour  was  quite  different.  He  inquired  for 
Rummer  and  the  cold  in  his  nose,  told  Mrs.  Rummer  a  riddle, 
asked  Miss  Rummer  when  she  would  be  ready  to  marry  him,  and 
paid  his  compliments  to  Miss  Brett,  the  other  young  lady  in  the 
bar,  all  in  a  minute  of  time,  and  with  a  liveliness  and  facetiousness 
which  set  all  these  ladies  in  a  giggle  ;  and  he  gave  a  cluck,  ex- 
pressive of  great  satisfaction,  as  he  tossed  off  his  mixture,  which 
Miss  Rummer  prepared  and  handed  to  him. 

"  Have  a  drop,"  said  he  to  Pen.  "  Give  the  young  one  a  glass, 
R.,  and  score  it  up  to  yours  truly." 

Poor  Pen  took  a  glass,  and  everybody  laughed  at  the  face  which 
he  made  as  he  put  it  down.  —  Gin,  bitters,  and  some  other  cordial, 
was  the  compound  with  which  Mr.  Foker  was  so  delighted  as  to 
call  it  by  the  name  of  Foker's  own.  As  Pen  choked,  sputtered, 
and  made  faces,  the  other  took  occasion  to  remark  to  Mr.  Rum- 
mer that  the  young  fellow  was  green,  very  green,  but  that  he 
would  soon  form  him  ;  and  then  they  proceeded  to  order  dinner  — 
which  Mr.  Foker  determined  should  consist  of  turtle  and  venison ; 
cautioning  the  landlady  to  be  very  particular  about  icing  the  wine. 

Then  Messrs.  Foker  and  Pen  strolled  down  the  High  Street 
together  —  the  former  having  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  which  he  had 
drawn  out  of  a  case  almost  as  big  as  a  portmanteau.     He  went  in 

1  [Good  people.] 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY  1 47 

to  replenish  it  at  Mr.  Lewis's,  and  tallied  to  that  gentleman  for  a 
while,  sitting  down  on  the  counter  :  he  then  looked  in  at  the 
fruiterer's,  to  see  the  pretty  girl  there :  then  they  passed  the 
County  Chronicle  office,  for  which  Pen  had  his  packet  ready,  in 
the  shape  of  "  Lines  to  Thyrza,"  but  poor  Pen  did  not  like  to  put 
the  letter  into  the  editor's  box  while  walking  in  company  with 
such  a  fine  gentleman  as  Mr.  Foker.  They  met  heavy  dragoons 
of  the  regiment  always  quartered  at  Chatteris  :  and  stopped  and 
talked  about  the  Baymouth  balls,  and  what  a  pretty  girl  was  Miss 
Brown,  and  what  a  dem  fine  woman  Mrs.  Jones  was.  It  was  in 
vain  that  Pen  recalled  to  his  own  mind  how  stupid  Foker  used  to 
be  at  school  —  how  he  could  scarcely  read,  how  he  was  not  cleanly 
in  his  person,  and  notorious  for  his  blunders  and  dulness.  Mr. 
Foker  was  not  more  refined  now  than  in  his  school  days  :  and  yet 
Pen  felt  a  secret  pride  in  strutting  down  High  Street  -with  a  young 
fellow  who  owned  tandems,  talked  to  officers,  and  ordered  turtle 
and  champagne  for  dinner.  He  listened,  and  with  respect  too,  to 
Mr.  Foker's  accounts  of  what  the  men  did  at  the  university  of 
which  Mr.  F.  was  an  ornament,  and  encountered  a  long  series 
of  stories  about  boat-racing,  bumping,  College  grass-plats,  and 
milk-punch  —  and  began  to  wish  to  go  up  himself  to  College  to  a 
place  where  there  were  such  manly  pleasures  and  enjoyments. 
Farmer  Gurnett,  who  lives  close  by  Fairoaks,  riding  by  at  this 
minute  and  touching  his  hat  to  Pen,  the  latter  stopped  him,  ancT 
sent  a  message  to  his  mother  to  say  that  he  had  met  with  an  old 
school-fellow,  and  should  dine  in  Chatteris. 

The  two  young  gentlemen  continued  their  walk,  and  were  pass- 
ing round  the  Cathedral  Yard,  where  they  could  hear  the  music 
of  the  afternoon  service  (a  music  which  always  exceedingly  affected 
Pen),  but  whither  Mr.  Foker  came  for  the  purpose  of  inspecting 
the  nursery  maids  who  frequent  the  Elms  Walk  there,  and  here 
they  strolled  until  with  a  final  burst  of  music  the  small  congrega- 
tion was  played  out. 

Old  Doctor  Portman  was  one  of  the  few  who  came  from  the 
venerable  gate.  Spying  Pen,  he  came  and  shook  him  by  the 
hand,  and  eyed  with  wonder  Pen's  friend,  from  whose  mouth  and 
cigar  clouds  of  fragrance  issued,  which  curled  round  the  Doctor's 
honest  face  and  shovel  hat. 


148  PENDENNIS  FALLS  LN  LOVE 

"An  old  school-feilow  of  mine,  Mr.  Foker,"  said  Pen.  The 
Doctor  said  "  H'm  "  :  and  scowled  at  the  cigar.  He  did  not  mind 
a  pipe  in  his  study,  but  the  cigar  was  an  abomination  to  the 
worthy  gentleman. 

"  I  came  up  on  Bishop's  business,"  the  Doctor  said.  "  We'll 
ride  home,  Arthur,  if  you  like?  " 

"I  —  I'm  engaged  to  my  friend  here,"  Pen  answered. 

"  You  had  better  come  home  with  me,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  His  mother  knows  he's  out,  sir,"  Mr.  Foker  remarked  :  "  don't 
she,  Pendennis?  " 

"  But  that  does  not  prove  that  he  had  not  better  come  home 
with  me,"  the  Doctor  growled,  and  he  walked  off  with  great  dignity. 

"  Old  boy  don't  like  the  weed,  I  suppose,"  Foker  said.  "  Ha  ! 
who's  here?  —  here's  the  General,  and  Bingley,  the  manager. 
How  do,  Cos?     How  do,  Bingley?" 

"How  does  my  worthy  and  gallant  young  Foker?"  said  the 
gentleman  addressed  as  the  General,  and  who  wore  a  shabby 
military  cape  with  a  mangy  collar,  and  a  hat  cocked  very  much 
over  one  eye. 

"Trust  you  are  very  well,  my  very  dear  sir,"  said  the  other 
gentleman,  "  and  that  the  Theatre  Royal  will  have  the  honour  of 
your  patronage  to-night.  We  perform  The  Stranger,  in  which 
your  humble  servant  will  —  " 

"  Can't  stand  you  in  tights  and  Hessians,  Bingley,"  young  Mr. 
Foker  said.  On  which  the  General,  with  the  Irish  accent,  said  : 
"  But  I  think  ye'U  like  Miss  Fotheringay,  in  Mrs.  Haller,  or  me 
name's  not  Jack  Costigan." 

Pen  looked  at  these  individuals  with  the  greatest  interest.  He 
had  never  seen  an  actor  before  ;  and  he  saw  Dr.  Portman's  red 
face  looking  over  the  Doctor's  shoulder,  as  he  retreated  from  the 
Cathedral  Yard,  evidently  quite  dissatisfied  with  the  acquaintances 
into  whose  hands  Pen  had  fallen. 

Perhaps  it  would  have  been  much  better  for  him  had  he  taken 
the  parson's  advice  and  company  home.  But  which  of  us  knows 
his  fate? 

Having  returned  to  the  George,  Mr.  Foker  and  his  guest  sat 
down  to  a  handsome  repast  in  the  coffee-room ;  where  Mr.  Rum- 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY  1 49 

mer  brought  in  the  first  dish,  and  bowed  as  gravely  as  if  he  was 
waiting  upon  the  Lord-Lieutenant  of  the  county. 

Pen  could  not  but  respect  Foker's  connoisseurship  as  he  pro- 
nounced the  champagne  to  be  condemned  gooseberry,  and  winked 
at  the  port  with  one  eye.  The  latter  he  declared  to  be  of  the 
right  sort;  and  told  the  waiters  there  was  no  way  of  humbugging 
him.  All  these  attendants  he  knew  by  their  Christian  names,  and 
showed  a  great  interest  in  their  families ;  and,  as  the  London 
coaches  drove  up,  which  in  those  early  days  used  to  set  off  from 
the  George,  Mr.  Foker  flung  the  coffee-room  window  open,  and 
called  the  guards  and  coachmen  by  their  Christian  names,  too, 
asking  about  their  respective  families,  and  imitating  with  great 
liveliness  and  accuracy  the  tooting  of  the  horns  as  Jem  the  ostler 
whipped  the  horses'  cloths  off,  and  the  carriages  drove  gaily 
away. 

"  A  botde  of  sherry,  a  botde  of  sham,  a  botde  of  port,  and  a 
shass  caffy,  it  ain't  so  bad,  hay.  Pen  ?  "  Foker  said,  and  pronounced, 
after  all  these  delicacies  and  a  quantity  of  nuts  and  fruit  had  been 
despatched,  that  it  was  time  to  "  toddle."  Pen  sprang  up  with 
very  bright  eyes,  and  a  flushed  face ;  and  they  moved  off  towards 
the  theatre,  where  they  paid  their  money  to  the  wheezy  old  lady 
slumbering  in  the  money-taker's  box.  "  Mrs.  Dropsicum,  Bing- 
ley's  mother-in-law,  great  in  Lady  Macbeth,"  Foker  said  to  this 
companion.     Foker  knew  her,  too. 

They  had  almost  their  choice  of  places  in  the  boxes  of  the 
theatre,  which  was  no  better  filled  than  country  theatres  usually 
are,  in  spite  of  the  "  universal  burst  of  attraction  and  galvanic 
thrills  of  delight,"  advertised  by  Bingley  in  the  play-bills.  A  score 
or  so  of  people  dotted  the  pit-benches,  a  few  more  kept  a-kicking 
and  whisding  in  the  galleries,  and  a  dozen  others,  who  came  in 
with  free  admissions,  were  in  the  boxes  where  our  gentlemen  sat. 
Lieutenants  Rodgers  and  Podgers,  and  young  Cronet  Tidmus,  of 
the  Dragoons,  occupied  a  private  box.  The  performers  acted  to 
them,  and  these  gentlemen  seemed  to  hold  conversations  with  the 
players  when  not  engaged  in  the  dialogue,  and  applauded  them  by 
name  loudly. 

Bingley,  the  manager,  who  assumed  all  the  chief  tragic  and 
comic  parts,  except  when  he  modestly  retreated  to  make  way  for 


150  PENDENNIS  FALLS  IN  LOVE 

the  London  stars,  who  came  down  occasionally  to  Chatteris,  was 
great  in  the  character  of  the  Stranger.  He  was  attired  in  the 
tight  pantaloons  and  Hessian  boots  which  the  stage  legend  has 
given  to  that  injured  man,  with  a  large  cloak  and  beaver,  and  a 
hearse-feather  in  it  drooping  over  his  raddled  old  face,  and  only 
partially  concealing  his  great  buckled  brown  wig.  He  had  the 
stage -jewelry  on,  too,  of  which  he  selected  the  largest  and  most 
shiny  rings  for  himself,  and  allowed  his  little  finger  to  quiver  out 
of  his  cloak  with  a  sham  diamond  ring  covering  the  first  joint  of 
the  finger  and  twiddling  in  the  faces  of  the  pit.  Bingley  made  it 
a  favour  to  the  young  men  of  his  company  to  go  on  in  light  comedy 
parts  with  that  ring.  They  flattered  him  by  asking  its  history. 
The  stage  has  its  traditional  jewels,  as  the  Crown  and  all  great 
families  have.  This  had  belonged  to  George  Frederick  Cooke, 
who  had  had  it  from  Mr.  Quin,  who  may  have  bought  it  for  a 
shilling.     Bingley  fancied  the  world  was  fascinated  with  its  glitter. 

He  was  reading  out  of  the  stage-book  —  that  wonderful  stage- 
book —  which  is  not  bound  like  any  other  book  in  the  world,  but 
is  rouged  and  tawdry  like  the  hero  or  heroine  who  holds  it ;  and 
who  holds  it  as  people  never  do  hold  books  :  and  points  with  his 
finger  to  a  passage,  and  wags  his  head  ominously  at  the  audience, 
and  then  lifts  up  eyes  and  finger  to  the  ceiling,  professing  to  de- 
rive some  intense  consolation  from  the  work  between  which  and 
heaven  there  is  a  strong  affinity. 

As  soon  as  the  Stranger  saw  the  young  men,  he  acted  at  them  ; 
eyeing  them  solemnly  over  his  gilt  volume  as  he  lay  on  the  stage- 
bank,  showing  his  hand,  his  ring,  and  his  Hessians.  He  calculated 
the  effect  that  every  one  of  these  ornaments  would  produce  upon 
his  victims  :  he  was  determined  to  fascinate  them,  for  he  knew 
they  had  paid  their  money ;  and  he  saw  their  families  coming  in 
from  the  country  and  filling  the  cane  chairs  in  his  boxes. 

As  he  lay  on  the  bank  reading,  his  servant,  Francis,  made  re- 
marks upon  his  master. 

"Again  reading,"  said  Francis,  "thus  it  is  from  mom  to 
night.  To  him  nature  has  no  beauty  —  life  no  charm.  For  three 
years  I  have  never  seen  him  smile"  (the  gloom  of  Bingley's  face 
was  fearful  to  witness  during  these  comments  of  the  faithful 
domestic).     "Nothing  diverts  him.     Oh,  if  he  would  but  attach 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY  151 

himself  to  any  living  thing,  were  it  an  animal  —  for  something 
man  must  love." 

\_Enter  Tobias  ( Goll^  from  the  hut.']  He  cries,  "  O,  how  re- 
freshing, after  seven  long  weeks,  to  feel  these  warm  sunbeams 
again.  Thanks,  bounteous  heaven,  for  the  joy  I  taste ! "  He 
presses  his  cap  between  his  hands,  looks  up  and  prays.  The 
Stranger  eyes  him  attentively. 

Francis  to  the  Stra?iger.  "This  old  man's  share  of  earthly  hap- 
piness can  be  but  little.  Yet  mark  how  grateful  he  is  for  his  portion 
of  it." 

Bingley.  "  Because,  though  old,  he  is  but  a  child  in  the  leading- 
string  of  Hope."  (He  looks  steadily  at  Foker,  who,  however,  con- 
tinues to  suck  the  top  of  his  stick  in  an  unconcerned  manner.) 

Francis.    "Hope  is  the  nurse  of  life." 

Bingley.    "  And  her  cradle  —  is  the  grave." 

The  Stranger  uttered  this  with  the  moan  of  a  bassoon  in  agony,  and 
fixed  his  glance  on  Pendennis  so  steadily  that  the  poor  lad  was  quite 
put  out  of  countenance.  He  thought  the  whole  house  must  be  look- 
ing at  him  and  cast  his  eyes  down.  As  soon  as  ever  he  raised  them 
Bingley's  were  at  him  again.  All  through  the  scene  the  manager 
played  at  him.  How  relieved  the  lad  was  when  the  scene  ended, 
and  Foker,  tapping  with  his  cane,  cried  out,  "  Bravo,  Bingley  ! " 

"  Give  him  a  hand,  Pendennis ;  you  know  every  chap  likes  a 
hand,"  Mr.  Foker  said ;  and  the  good-natured  young  gentleman, 
and  Pendennis  laughing,  and  the  dragoons  in  the  opposite  box, 
began  clapping  hands  to  the  best  of  their  power. 

A  chamber  in  Wintersen  Castle  closed  over  Tobias's  hut  and  the 
Stranger  and  his  boots ;  and  servants  appeared  bustling  about 
with  chairs  and  tables.  —  "That's  Hicks  and  Miss  Thackthwaite," 
whispered  Foker.  "Pretty  girl,  ain't  she,  Pendennis?  But  stop 
—  hurray  —  bravo  !  here's  the  Fotheringay." 

The  pit  thrilled  and  thumped  its  umbrellas  ;  a  volley  of  applause 
was  fired  from  the  gallery ;  the  Dragoon  officers  and  Foker 
clapped  their  hands  furiously  :  you  would  have  thought  the  house 
was  full,  so  loud  were  their  plaudits.  The  red  face  and  ragged 
whiskers  of  Mr.  Costigan  were  seen  peering  from  the  side-scene. 
Pen's  eyes  opened  wide  and  bright,  as  Mrs.  Haller  entered  with  a 
downcast  look,  then  rallying  at  ,the  sound  of  the  applause,  swept 


152  PENDENNIS  FALLS  IN  LOVE 

the  house  with  a  grateful  glance,  and,  folding  her  hands  across  her 
breast,  sank  down  in  a  magnificent  curtsey.  More  applause,  more 
umbrellas ;  Pen  this  time,  flaming  with  wine  and  enthusiasm, 
clapped  hands  and  sang  "  Bravo  "  louder  than  all.  Mrs.  Haller 
saw  him,  and  everybody  else,  and  old  Mr.  Bows,  the  Httle  first 
fiddler  of  the  orchestra  (which  was  this  night  increased  by  a  de- 
tachment of  the  band  of  the  dragoons,  by  the  kind  permission  of 
Colonel  Swallowtail),  looked  up  from  the  desk  where  he  was 
perched,  with  his  crutch  beside  him,  and  smiled  at  the  enthusiasm 
of  the  lad. 

Those  who  have  only  seen  Miss  Fotheringay  in  later  days,  since 
her  marriage  and  introduction  into  London  Hfe,  have  little 
idea  how  beautiful  a  creature  she  was  at  the  time  when  our 
friend  Pen  first  set  eyes  on  her.  She  was  of  the  tallest  of  women, 
and  at  her  then  age  of  six-and-twenty  —  for  six-and-twenty  she 
was,  though  she  vows  she  was  only  nineteen  —  in  the  prime  and 
fulness  of  her  beauty.  Her  forehead  was  vast,  and  her  black 
hair  waved  over  it  with  a  natural  ripple,  and  was  confined  in 
shining  and  voluminous  braids  at  the  back  of  a'  neck  such  as  you 
see  on  the  shoulders  of  the  Louvre  Venus  —  that  delight  of 
gods  and  men.  Her  eyes,  when  she  lifted  them  up  to  gaze  on 
you,  and  ere  she  dropped  their  purple,  deep-fringed  lids,  shone 
with  tenderness  and  mystery  unfathomable.  Love  and  Genius 
seemed  to  look  out  from  them  and  then  retire  coyly,  as  if 
ashamed  to  have  been  seen  at  the  latdce.  Who  could  have  had 
such  a  commanding  brow  but  a  woman  of  high  intellect?  She 
never  laughed  (indeed  her  teeth  were  not  good),  but  a  smile  of 
endless  tenderness  and  sweetness  played  round  her  beautiful  lips, 
and  in  the  dimples  of  her  cheeks  and  her  lovely  chin.  Her  nose 
defied  description  in  those  days.  Her  ears  were  like  two  little 
pearl  shells,  which  the  ear-rings  she  wore  (though  the  handsomest 
properties  in  the  theatre)  only  insulted.  She  was  dressed  in  long, 
flowing  robes  of  black,  which  she  managed  and  swept  to  and  fro 
with  wonderful  grace,  and  out  of  the  folds  of  which  you  only  saw 
her  sandals  occasionally ;  they  were  of  rather  a  large  size ;  but 
Pen  thought  them  as  ravishing  as  the  slippers  of  Cinderella.  But 
it  was  her  hand  and  arm  that  this  magnificent  creature  most  ex- 
celled in,  and  somehow  you  could  never  see  her  but  through 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY  1 53 

tfiem.  They  surrounded  her.  When  she  folded  them  over  her 
bosom  in  resignation ;  when  she  dropped  them  in  mute  agony,  or 
raised  them  in  superb  command ;  when  in  sportive  gaiety  her 
hands  fluttered  and  waved  before  her,  like  —  what  shall  we  say? — ■ 
like  the  snowy  doves  before  the  chariot  of  Venus  —  it  was  with 
these  arms  and  hands  that  she  beckoned,  repelled,  entreated, 
embraced  her  admirers  —  no  single  one,  for  she  was  armed  with 
her  own  virtue,  and  with  her  father's  valour,  whose  sword  would 
have  leapt  from  its  scabbard  at  any  insult  offered  to  his  child  — 
but  the  whole  house  ;  which  rose  to  her,  as  the  phrase  was,  as  she 
curtseyed  and  bowed,  and  charmed  it. 

Thus  she  stood  for  a  minute  —  complete  and  beautiful  —  as  Pen 
stared  at  her.     "  I  say,  Pen,  isn't  she  a  stunner?  "  asked  Mr.  Foker. 

"  Hush  !  "  Pen  said.     "  She's  speaking." 

She  began  her  business  in  a  deep  sweet  voice.  Those  who 
know  the  play  of  the  Stranger  are  aware  that  the  remarks  made 
by  the  various  characters  are  not  valuable  in  themselves,  either  for 
their  sound  or  sense,  their  novelty  of  observation,  or  their  poetic 
fancy. 

Nobody  ever  talked  so.  If  we  meet  idiots  in  life,  as  will  happen, 
it  is  a  great  mercy  that  they  do  not  use  such  absurdly  fine  words. 
The  Stranger's  talk  is  sham,  like  the  book  he  reads,  and  the  hair 
he  wears,  and  the  bank  he  sits  on,  and  the  diamond  ring  he  makes 
play  with  —  but,  in  the  midst  of  the  balderdash,  there  runs  that 
reality  of  love,  children,  and  forgiveness  of  wrong,  which  will  be 
listened  to  wherever  it  is  preached,  and  sets  all  the  world  sym- 
pathising. 

With  what  smothered  sorrow,  with  what  gushing  pathos,  Mrs. 
Haller  delivered  her  part  !  At  first  when,  as  Count  Wintersen's 
housekeeper,  and  preparing  for  his  Excellency's  arrival,  she  has 
to  give  orders  about  the  beds  and  furniture,  and  the  dinner,  etc., 
to  be  got  ready,  she  did  so  with  the  calm  agony  of  despair.  But 
when  she  could  get  rid  of  the  stupid  servants,  and  give  vent  to 
her  feelings  to  the  pit  and  the  house,  she  overflowed  to  each  indi- 
vidual as  if  he  were  her  particular  confidant,  and  she  was  crying 
out  her  griefs  on  his  shoulder  :  the  little  fiddler  in  the  orchestra 
(whom  she  did  not  seem  to  watch,  though  he  followed  her  cease- 
lessly) twitched,  twisted,  nodded,  pointed  about,  and  when  she 


154  PENDENNIS  FALLS  IN  LOVE 

came  to  the  favourite  passage  :  "  I  have  a  William,  too,  if  he  be 
still  alive  —  Ah,  yes,  if  he  be  still  alive.  His  little  sisters,  too! 
Why,  Fancy,  dost  thou  rack  me  so?  Why  dost  thou  image  my 
poor  children  fainting  in  sickness  and  crying  to  —  to  —  their 
mum  —  um  —  other,'''  —  when  she  came  to  this  passage  little  Bows 
buried  his  face  in  his  blue  cotton  handkerchief,  after  crying 
out  "  Bravo." 

All  the 'house  was  affected.  Foker,  for  his  part,  taking  out  a 
large  yellow  bandanna,  wept  piteously.  As  for  Pen,  he  was  gone 
too  far  for  that.  He  followed  the  woman  about  and  about — when 
she  was  off  the  stage,  it  and  the  house  were  blank  ;  the  lights  and 
the  red  officers  reeled  wildly  before  his  sight.  He  watched  her 
at  the  side-scene  —  where  she  stood  waiting  to  come  on  the  stage, 
and  where  her  father  took  off  her  shawl :  when  the  reconciliation 
arrived,  and  she  flung  herself  down  on  Mr.  Bingley's  shoulders, 
whilst  the  children  cliing  to  their  knees,  and  the  Countess  (Mrs. 
Bingley)  and  Baron  Steintforth  (performed  with  great  liveliness 
and  spirit  by  Garbetts)  —  while  the  rest  of  the  characters  formed 
a  group  round  them.  Pen's  hot  eyes  only  saw  Fotheringay,  Fother- 
ingay.  The  curtain  fell  upon  him  like  a  pall.  He  did  not  hear 
a  word  of  what  Bingley  said,  who  came  forward  to  announce 
the  play  for  the  next  evening,  and  who  took  the  tumultuous  applause, 
as  usual,  for  himself.  Pen  was  not  even  distinctly  aware  that  the 
house  was  calling  for  Miss  Fotheringay,  nor  did  the  manager  seem 
to  comprehend  that  anybody  else  but  himself  had  caused  the 
success  of  the  play.  At  last  he  understood  it  —  stepped  back 
with  a  grin,  and  presently  appeared  with  Mrs.  Haller  on  his  arm. 
How  beautiful  she  looked  !  Her  hair  had  fallen  down,  the 
officers  threw  her  flowers.  She  clutched  them  to  her  heart.  She 
put  back  her  hair,  and  smiled  all  round.  Her  eyes  met  Pen's. 
Down  went  the  curtain  again  ;  and  she  was  gone.  Not  one  note 
could  he  hear  of  the  overture  which  the  brass  band  of  the  dra- 
goons blew  by  kind  permission  of  Colonel  Swallowtail. 

"She  is  a  crusher,  ain't  she,  now?"  Mr.  Foker  asked  of  his 
companion. 

Pen  did  not  know  exactly  what  Foker  said,  and  answered 
vaguely.  He  could  not  tell  the  other  what  he  felt ;  he  could  not 
have  spoken,  just  then,  to  any  mortal.     Besides,  Pendennis  did  not 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY  155 

quite  know  what  he  felt  yet ;  it  was  something  overwhelming, 
maddening,  delicious  ;    a  fever  of  wild  joy  and  undefined  longing. 

And  now  Rowkins  and  Miss  Thackthwaite  came  on  to  dance  the 
favourite  double  hornpipe,  and  Foker  abandoned  himself  to  the 
delights  of  this  ballet,  just  as  he  had  to  the  tears  of  the  tragedy 
a  few  minutes  before.  Pen  did  not  care  for  it,  or  indeed  think 
about  the  dance,  except  to  remember  that  that  woman  was  acting 
with  her  in  the  scene  where  she  first  came  in.  It  was  a  mist 
before  his  eyes.  At  the  end  of  the  dance  he  looked  at  his  watch 
and  said  it  was  time  for  him  to  go. 

"  Hang  it,  stay  to  see  The  Bravo  of  the  Battle-Axe''  Foker 
said ;  "  Bingley's  splendid  in  it ;  he  wears  red  tights,  and  has  to 
carry  Mrs.  B.  over  the  Pine-bridge  of  the  Cataract,  only  she's  too 
heavy.     It's  great  fun,  do  stop." 

Pen  looked  at  the  bill  with  one  lingering  fond  hope  that  Miss 
Fotheringay's  name  might  be  hidden,  somewhere,  in  the  list  of  the 
actors  of  the  after- piece,  but  there  was  no  such  name.  Go  he 
must.  He  had  a  long  ride  home.  He  squeezed  Foker's  hand. 
He  was  choking  to  speak,  but  he  couldn't.  He  quitted  the 
theatre  and  walked  frantically  about  the  town,  he  knew  not  how 
long ;  then  he  mounted  at  the  George  and  rode  homewards,  and 
Clavering  clock  sang  out  one  as  he  came  into  the  yard  at  Fair- 
oaks.  The  lady  of  the  house  might  have  been  awake,  but  she 
only  heard  him  from  the  passage  outside  his  room  as  he  dashed 
into  bed  and  pulled  the  clothes  over  his  head. 


A   VOICE    FROM   THE  PAST 

GEORGE  ELIOT 
[From  chapter  3,  book  iv,  of  The  Mill  on  the  Floss,  i860.] 

Maggie's  sense  of  loneliness  and  utter  privation  of  joy  had 
deepened  with  the  brightness  of  advancing  spring.  All  the 
favourite  outdoor  nooks  about  home,  which  seemed  to  have 
done  their  part  with  her  parents  in  nurturing  and  cherishing 
her,  were  now  mixed  up  with  the  home-sadness,  and  gathered 
no  smile  from  the  sunshine.     Every  affection,  every  delight  the 


156  A    VOICE  FROM   THE  PAST 

poor  child  had  had,  was  like  an  aching  nerve  to  her.  There 
was  no  music  for  her  any  more  —  no  piano,  no  harmonised 
voices,  no  delicious  stringed  instruments,  with  their  passionate 
cries  of  imprisoned  spirits  sending  a  strange  vibration  through 
her  frame.  And  of  all  her  school  life  there  was  nothing  left 
her  now  but  her  little  collection  of  school-books,  which  she 
turned  over  with  a  sickening  sense  that  she  knew  them  all,  and 
they  were  all  barren  of  comfort.  Even  at  school  she  had  often 
wished  for  books  with  7nore  in  them  :  everything  she  learned 
there  seemed  like  the  ends  of  long  threads  that  snapped  im- 
mediately. And  now  —  without  the  indirect  charm  of  school- 
emulation —  T^l^maque  was  mere  bran;  so  were  the  hard  dry 
questions  on  Christian  Doctrine  :  there  was  no  flavour  in  them  — 
no  strength.  Sometimes  Maggie  thought  she  could  have  been 
contented  with  absorbing  fancies  ;  if  she  could  have  had  all 
of  Scott's  novels  and  Byron's  poems!  —  then,  perhaps,  she 
might  have  found  happiness  enough  to  dull  her  sensibility 
to  her  actual  daily  life.  And  yet  —  they  were  hardly  what 
she  wanted.  She  could  make  dream-worlds  of  her  own, — 
but  no  dream-world  would  satisfy  her  now.  She  wanted 
some  explanation  of  this  hard,  real  life ;  the  unhappy-looking 
father,  seated  at  the  dull  breakfast-table  ;  the  childish,  be- 
wildered mother  ;  the  little  sordid  tasks  that  filled  the  hours, 
or  the  more  oppressive  emptiness  of  weary,  joyless  leisure  ; 
the  need  of  some  tender,  demonstrative  love ;  the  cruel  sense 
that  Tom  didn't  mind  what  she  thought  or  felt,  and  that 
they  were  no  longer  playfellows  together ;  the  privation  of  all 
pleasant  things  that  had  come  to  her  more  than  to  others  :  she 
wanted  some  key  that  would  enable  her  to  understand,  and,  in 
understanding,  endure  the  heavy  weight  that  had  fallen  on  her 
young  heart.  If  she  had  been  taught  "  real  learning  and  wis- 
dom, such  as  great  men  knew,"  she  thought  she  should  have 
held  the  secrets  of  life  ;  if  she  had  only  books,  that  she  might 
learn  for  herself  what  wise  men  knew  !  Saints  and  martyrs  had 
never  interested  Maggie  so  much  as  sages  and  poets.  She 
knew  little  of  saints  and  martyrs,  and  had  gathered,  as  a  general 
result  of  her  teaching,  that  they  were  a  temporary  provision 
against  the  spread  of  Catholicism,  and  had  all  died  at  Smithfield. 


GEORGE  ELIOT  1 57 

In  one  of  these  meditations,  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  had 
forgotten  Tom's  school-books,  which  had  been  sent  home  in  his 
trunk.  But  she  found  the  stock  unaccountably  shrunk  down  to 
the  few  old  ones  which  had  been  well  thumbed  —  the  Latin 
Dictionary  and  Grammar,  a  Delectus,  a  torn  Eutropius,  the 
well-worn  Virgil,  Aldrich's  Logic,  and  the  exasperating  Euclid. 
Still,  Latin,  Euclid,  and  Logic  would  surely  be  a  considerable 
step  in  masculine  wisdom  —  in  that  knowledge  which  made 
men  contented,  and  even  glad  to  live.  Not  that  the  yearning 
for  effectual  wisdom  was  quite  unmixed :  a  certain  mirage 
would  now  and  then  rise  on  the  desert  of  the  future,  in  which 
she  seemed  to  see  herself  honoured  for  her  surprising  attain- 
ments. And  so  the  poor  child,  with  her  soul's  hunger  and  her 
illusions  of  self-flattery,  began  to  nibble  at  this  thick-rinded  fruit 
of  the  tree  of  knowledge,  filling  her  vacant  hours  with  Latin, 
geometry,  and  the  forms  of  the  syllogism,  and  feeling  a  gleam 
of  triumph  now  and  then  that  her  understanding  was  quite 
equal  to  these  peculiarly  masculine  studies.  For  a  week  or  two 
she  went  on  resolutely  enough,  though  with  an  occasional  sink- 
ing of  heart,  as  if  she  had  set  out  toward  the  Promised  Land 
alone,  and  found  it  a  thirsty,  trackless,  uncertain  journey.  In 
the  severity  of  her  early  resolution,  she  would  take  Aldrich  out 
into  the  fields,  and  then  look  off  her  book  toward  the  sky,  where 
the  lark  was  twinkling,  or  to  the  reeds  and  bushes  by  the  river, 
from  which  the  water-fowl  rustled  forth  on  its  anxious,  awkward 
flight  —  with  a  startled  sense  that  the  relation  between  Aldrich 
and  this  living  world  was  extremely  remote  for  her.  The  dis- 
couragement deepened  as  the  days  went  on,  and  the  eager  heart 
gained  faster  and  faster  on  the  patient  mind.  Somehow,  when 
she  sat  at  the  window  with  her  book,  her  eyes  woiild  fix  them- 
selves blankly  on  the  outdoor  sunshine  ;  then  they  would  fill 
with  tears,  and  sometimes,  if  her  mother  was  not  in  the  room, 
the  studies  would  all  end  in  sobbing.  She  rebelled  against  her 
lot,  she  fainted  under  its  loneliness,  and  fits  even  of  anger  and 
hatred  toward  her  father  and  mother,  who  were  so  unlike  what 
she  would  have  them  to  be  —  toward  Tom,  who  checked  her 
and  met  her  thought  or  feeling  always  by  some  thwarting  differ- 
ence —  would   flow  out  over  affections  and  conscience  like  a 


158  A    VOICE  FROM   THE  FAST 

lava-stream,  and  frighten  her  with  a  sense  that  it  was  not 
difficult  for  her  to  become  a  demon.  Then  her  brain  would  be 
busy  with  wild  romances  of  flight  from  home  in  search  of  some- 
thing less  sordid  and  dreary ;  she  would  go  to  some  great  man 
—  Walter  Scott,  perhaps  —  and  tell  him  how  wretched  and  how 
clever  she  was,  and  he  would  surely  do  something  for  her.  But, 
in  the  middle  of  her  vision,  her  father  would  perhaps  enter  the 
room  for  the  evening,  and,  surprised  that  she  still  sat  without  no- 
ticing him,  would  say,  complainingly  :  "  Come,  am  I  to  fetch  my 
slippers  myself  ?  "  The  voice  "pierced  through  Maggie  like  a 
sword  ;  there  was  another  sadness  besides  her  own,  and  she 
had  been  thinking  of  turning  her  back  on  it  and  forsaking  it. 

This  afternoon  the  sight  of  Bob's  cheerful  freckled  face  had 
given  her  discontent  a  new  direction.  She  thought  it  was  part 
of  the  hardship  of  her  life  that  there  was  laid  upon  her  the  bur- 
then of  larger  wants  than  others  seemed  to  feel  —  that  she  had 
to  endure  this  wide  hopeless  yearning  for  that  something,  what- 
ever it  was,  that  was  greatest  and  best  on  this  earth.  She  wished 
she  could  have  been  like  Bob,  with  his  easily  satisfied  ignorance, 
or  like  Tom,  who  had  something  to  do  on  which  he  could  fix 
his  mind  with  a  steady  purpose,  and  disregard  everything 
else.  Poor  child  !  as  she  leaned  her  head  against  the  window- 
frame,  with  her  hands  clasped  tighter  and  tighter,  and  her  foot 
beating  the  ground,  she  was  as  lonely  in  her  trouble  as  if  she 
had  been  the  only  girl  in  the  civilised  world  of  that  day  who 
had  come  out  of  her  school-life  with  a  soul  untrained  for  inevi- 
table struggles  —  with  no  other  part  of  her  inherited  share  in  the 
hard-won  treasures  of  thought,  which  generations  of  painful  toil 
have  laid  up  for  the  race  of  men,  than  shreds  and  patches  of 
feeble  literature  and  false  history  —  with  much  futile  informa- 
tion about  Saxon  and  other  kings  of  doubtful  example  —  but 
happily  quite  without  that  knowledge  of  the  irreversible  laws 
within  and  without  her,  which,  governing  the  habits,  becomes 
morality,  and,  developing  the  feelings  of  submission  and  depen- 
dence, becomes  religion  :  —  as  lonely  in  her  trouble  as  if  every 
other  girl  besides  herself  had  been  cherished  and  'watched  over 
by  elder  minds,  not  forgetful  of  their  own  early  time,  when  need 
was  keen  and  impulse  strong. 


GEORGE  ELIOT  1 59 

At  last  Maggie's  eyes  glanced  down  on  the  books  that  lay  on 
the  window-shelf,  and  she  half  forsook  her  reverie  to  turn  over 
listlessly  the  leaves  of  the  Portrait  Gallery ;  but  she  soon  pushed 
this  aside  to  examine  the  little  row  of  books  tied  together  with 
string.  Beauties  of  the  Spectator,  Rasselas,  Economy  of  Human 
Life,  Gregorfs  Letters  —  she  knew  the  sort  of  matter  that  was 
inside  all  these  :  the  Christian  Year —  that  seemed  to  be  a  hymn- 
book,  and  she  laid  it  down  again  ;  but  Thomas  a  Kefupis  ?  —  the 
name  had  come  across  her  in  her  reading,  and  she  felt  the  satis- 
faction, which  every  one  knows,  of  getting  some  idea  to  attach  to 
a  name  that  strays  solitary  in  the  memory.  She  took  up  the  little, 
old,  clumsy  book  with  some  curiosity  :  it  had  the  corners  turned 
down  in  many  places,  and  some  hand,  now  for  ever  quiet,  had 
made  at  certain  passages  strong  pen-and-ink  marks,  long  since 
browned  by  time.  Maggie  turned  from  leaf  to  leaf,  and  read 
where  the  quiet  hand  pointed  —  "  K'now  that  the  love  of  thyself 
doth  hurt  thee  more  than  anything  in  the  world  ...  If  thou 
seekest  this  or  that,  and  wouldst  be  here  or  there  to  enjoy  thy 
own  will  and  pleasure,  thou  shalt  never  be  quiet  nor  free  from 
care :  for  in  everything  somewhat  will  be  wanting,  and  in  every 
place  there  will  be  some  that  will  cross  thee.  .  .  .  Both 
above  and  below,  which  way  soever  thou  dost  turn  thee,  every- 
where thou  shalt  find  the  Cross  :  and  everywhere  of  necessity 
thou  must  have  patience,  if  thou  wilt  have  inward  peace,  and 
enjoy  an  everlasting  crown.  ...  If  thou  desire  to  mount  unto 
this  height,  thou  must  set  out  courageously,  and  lay  the  axe  to 
the  root,  that  thou  mayest  pluck  up  and  destroy  that  hidden  inor- 
dinate inclination  to  thyself,  and  unto  all  private  and  earthly 
good.  On  this  sin,  that  a  man  inordinately  loveth  himself, 
almost  all  dependeth,  whatsoever  is  thoroughly  to  be  overcome ; 
which  evil  being  once  overcome  and  subdued,  there  will  pres- 
ently ensue  great  peace  and  tranquillity.  ...  It  is  but  little 
thou  sufferest  in  comparison  of  them  that  have  suffered  so  much, 
were  so  strongly  tempted,  so  grievously  afflicted,  so  many  ways 
tried  and  exercised.  Thou  oughtest  therefore  to  call  to  mind 
the  more  heavy  sufferings  of  others,  that  thou  mayest  the  easier 
bear  thy  little  adversities.  And  if  they  seem  not  little  unto  thee, 
beware  lest  thy  impatience  be  the  cause  thereof.  .  .  .     Blessed, 


l6o  A    VOICE  FROM    THE  FAST 

are  those  ears  that  receive  the  whispers  of  the  divine  voice,  and 
listen  not  to  the  whisperings  of  the  world.  Blessed  are  those 
ears  which  hearken  not  unto  the  voice  which  soundeth  outwardly, 
but  unto  the  Truth,  which  teaches  inwardly  —  " 

A  strange  thrill  of  awe  passed  through  Maggie  while  she  read, 
as  if  she  had  been  awakened  in  the  night  by  a  strain  of  solemn 
music,  telling  of  beings  whose  souls  had  been  astir  while  hers 
was  in  stupour.  She  went  on  from  one  brown  mark  to  another, 
where  the  quiet  hand  seemed  to  point,  hardly  conscious  that 
she  was  reading  —  seeming  rather  to  hsten  while  a  low  voice 

said  — 

"  Why  dost  thou  here  gaze  about,  since  this  is  not  the  place 
of  thy  rest  ?  In  heaven  ought  to  be  thy  dwelling,  and  all  earthly 
things  are  to  be  looked  on  as  they  forward  thy  journey  thither. 
All  things  pass  away,  and  thou  together  with  them.  Beware  thou 
cleave  not  unto  them,  lest  thou  be  entangled  and  perish.  .  .  . 
If  a  man  should  give  all  his  substance,  yet  it  is  as  nothing.  And 
if  he  should  attain  to  all  knowledge,  he  is  yet  far  off.  And  if  he 
should  be  of  great  virtue,  and  very  fervent  devotion,  yet  is 
there  much  wanting ;  to  wit,  one  thing,  which  is  most  necessary 
for  him.  What  is  that  ?  That  having  left  all,  he  leave  himself, 
and  go  wholly  out  of  himself,  and  retain  nothing  of  self-love. 
...  I  have  often  said  unto  thee,  and  now  again  I  say  the  same. 
Forsake  thyself,  resign  thyself,  and  thou  shalt  enjoy  much 
inward  peace.  .  .  .  Then  shall  all  vain  imaginations,  evil  per- 
turbations, and  superfluous  cares  fly  away ;  then  shall  immoder- 
ate fear  leave  thee,  and  inordinate  love  shall  die." 

Maggie  drew  a  long  breath  and  pushed  her  heavy  hair  back, 
as  if  to  see  a  sudden  vision  more  clearly.  Here,  then,  was  a 
secret  of  life  that  would  enable  her  to  renounce  all  other  secrets 
—  here  was  a  sublime  height  to  be  reached  without  the  help  of 
outward  things  —  here  was  insight,  and  strength,  and  conquest, 
to  be  won  by  means  entirely  within  her  own  soul,  where  a 
supreme  Teacher  was  waiting  to  be  heard.  It  flashed  through 
her  like  the  suddenly  apprehended  solution  of  a  problem,  that 
all  the  miseries  of  her  young  life  had  come  from  fixing  her  heart 
on  her  own  pleasure,  as  if  that  were  the  central  necessity  of  the 
universe  ;  and  for  the  first  time  she  saw  the  possibility  of  shift- 


GEORGE  ELIOT  l6l 

ing  the  position  from  which  she  looked  at  the  gratification  of 
her  own  desires  —  of  taking  her  stand  out  of  herself,  and  looking 
at  her  own  life  as  an  insignificant  part  of  a  divinely-guided 
whole.  She  read  on  and  on  in  the  old  book,  devouring  eagerly 
the  dialogues  with  the  invisible  Teacher,  the  pattern  of  sorrow, 
the  source  of  all  strength  ;  returning  to  it  after  she  had  been  called 
away,  and  reading  till  the  sun  went  down  behind  the  willows. 
With  all  the  hurry  of  an  imagination  that  could  never  rest  in 
the  present,  she  sat  in  the  deepening  twilight  forming  plans  of 
self-humiliation  and  entire  devotedness ;  and,  in  the  ardour  of 
first  discovery,  renunciation  seemed  to  her  the  entrance  iiito 
that  satisfaction  which  she  had  so  long  been  craving  in  vain. 
She  had  not  perceived  —  how  could  she  until  she  had  lived 
longer  ?  —  the  inmost  truth  of  the  old  monk's  outpourings,  that 
renunciation  remains  sorrow,  though  a  sorrow  borne  willingly. 
Maggie  was  still  panting  for  happiness,  and  was  in  ecstasy  be- 
cause she  had  found  the  key  to  it.  She  knew  nothing  of  doc- 
trines and  systems  —  of  mysticism  or  quietism  ;  but  this  voice 
out  of  the  far-off  middle  ages  was  the  direct  communication 
of  a  human  soul's  belief  and  experience,  and  came  to  Maggie  as 
an  unquestioned  message. 

I  suppose  that  is  the  reason  why  the  small  old-fashioned 
book,  for  which  you  need  only  pay  sixpence  at  a  book-stall, 
works  miracles  to  this  day,  turning  bitter  waters  into  sweetness : 
while  expensive  sermons  and  treatises,  newly  issued,  leave  all 
things  as  they  were  before.  It  was  written  down  by  a  hand 
that  waited  for  the  heart's  prompting  ;  it  is  the  chronicle  of  a 
solitary,  hidden  anguish,  struggle,  trust  and  triumph  —  not  writ- 
ten on  velvet  cushions  to  teach  endurance  to  those  who  are 
treading  with  bleeding  feet  on  the  stones.  And  so  it  remains 
to  all  time  a  lasting  record  of  human  needs  and  human  consola- 
tions :  the  voice  of  a  brother  who,  ages  ago,  felt  and  suffered 
and  renounced  —  in  the  cloister,  perhaps,  with  serge  gown  and 
tonsured  head,  with  much  chanting  and  long  fasts,  and  with  a 
fashion  of  speech  different  from  ours  —  but  under  the  same  silent 
far-off  heavens,  and  with  the  same  passionate  desires,  the  same 
strivings,  the  same  failures,  the  same  weariness. 

In  writing  the  history  of  unfashionable  families,  one  is  apt  to 

M 


1 62  A    VOICE  FROM   THE  PAST 

fall  into  a  tone  of  emphasis  which  is  very  far  from  being  the 
tone  of  good  society,  where  principles  and  beliefs  are  not  only 
of  an  extremely  moderate  kind,  but  are  always  presupposed,  no 
objects  being  eligible  but  such  as  can  be  touched  with  a  light 
and  graceful  irony.     But  then,  good  society  has  its  claret  and 
its  velvet  carpets,  its   dinner-engagements  six  weeks   deep,  its 
opera  and  its  faery  ballrooms  ;  rides  off  its  enmd  on  thorough- 
bred horse?,  lounges  at  the  club,  has  to  keep  clear  of  crinoline 
vortices,  gets  its  science  done  by  Faraday,  and  its  religion  by 
the  superior  clergy  who  are  to  be  met  in  the  best  houses  :  how 
should  it  have  time  or  need  for  belief  and  emphasis  ?     But  good 
society,  floated  on  gossamer  wings  of    light  irony,  is  of   very 
expensive  production  ;  requiring  nothing  less  than  a  wide  and  ar- 
duous national  life  condensed  in  unfragrant  deafening  factories, 
cramping  itself  in  mines,  sweating  at  furnaces,  grinding,  ham- 
mering, weaving  under  more  or  less  oppression  of  carbonic  acid  — 
or  else,  spread  over  sheep-walks,  and  scattered  in  lonely  houses 
and  huts  on  the  clayey  or  chalky  corn-lands,  where  the  rainy  days 
look  dreary.     This  wide  national  life  is  based  entirely  on  em- 
phasis —  the  emphasis  of  want,  which  urges  it  into  all  the  ac- 
tivities necessary  for  the  maintenance  of  good  society  and  light 
irony  :  it  spends   its  heavy  years  often  in  a  chill,  uncarpeted 
fashion,    amid   family   discord   unsoftened   by   long   corridors. 
Under  such  circumstances,  there  are  many  among  its  myriads 
of  souls  who  have  absolutely  needed  an  emphatic  belief :  life  in 
this  unpleasurable  shape  demanding  some  solution  even  to  un- 
speculative  minds  ;  just  as  you  inquire  into  the  stuffing  of  your 
couch  when  anything  galls  you  there,  whereas  eider-down  and 
perfect  French  springs  excite  no  question.     Some  have  an  em- 
phatic belief  in  alcohol,  and  seek  their  ekstasis  or  outside  stand- 
ing-ground in  gin  ;  but  the  rest  require  something  that  good 
society  calls  "  enthusiasm,"  something  that  will  present  motive 
in  an  entire  absence  of  high  prizes,  something  that  will  give 
patience  and  feed  human  love  when  the  limbs  ache  with  weari- 
ness, and  human  looks  are  hard  upon  us  —  something,  clearly, 
that  lies  outside  personal  desires,  that  includes  resignation  for 
ourselves  and  active  love  for  what  is  not  ourselves.     Now  and 
then,  that   sort  of  enthusiasm   finds   a   far-echoing  voice  that 


GEORGE  ELIOT  163 

comes  from  an  experience  springing  out  of  the  deepest  need. 
And  it  was  by  being  brought  within  the  long  hngering  vibra- 
tions  of    such  a  voice  that  Maggie,  with  her  girl's  face    and 
unnoted  sorrows,   found  an  effort  and  a  hope  that  helped  her 
through  years  of  loneliness,  making  out  a  faith  for  herself  with- 
out the  aid  of  established  authorities  and  appointed  guides  —  for 
they  were  not  at  hand,  and  her  need  was  pressing.     From  what 
you  know  of  her,  you  will  not  be  surprised  that  she  threw  some 
exaggeration  and  wilfulness,  some  pride  and  impetuosity,  even 
into  her  self-renunciation :  her  own  life  was  still  a  drama  for 
her,   in  which  she   demanded  of  herself  that  her  part  should 
be  played  with  intensity.     And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  she  often 
lost  the  spirit  of  humility  by  being  excessive  in  the  outward  act ; 
she  often  strove  after  too  high  a  flight,  and  came  down  with  her 
poor  little  half-fledged  wings  dabbled  in  the  mud.    For  example, 
she  not  only  determined  to  work  at  plain  sewing,  that  she  might 
contribute  something  towards  the  fund  in  the  tin  box,  but  she 
went,  in  the  first  instance,  in  her  zeal  of  self-mortification,  to 
ask  for  it  at  a  linen  shop  in  St.  Ogg's,  instead  of  getting  it  in  a 
more  quiet  and  indirect  way ;  and  could  see  nothing  but  what 
was  entirely  wrong    and   unkind,  nay,  persecuting,   in    Tom's 
reproof   of    her    for    this    unnecessary  act.     "  I   don't  like  my 
sister  to  do  such  things,"  said  Tom  ;   "  77/  take  care  that  the 
debts  are   paid,  without  your  lowering  yourself  in  that  way." 
Surely  there  was  some  tenderness  and  bravery  mingled  with 
the  worldliness    and    self-assertion  of   that   little    speech;   but 
Maggie  held  it  as  dross,  overlooking  the  grains  of  gold,  and  took 
Tom's  rebuke  as  one  of  her  outward  crosses.     Tom  was  very 
hard  to  her,  she  used  to  think,  in  her  long  night-watchings  —  to 
her  who  had  always  loved  him  so ;  and  then  she  strove  to  be 
contented  with  that  hardness,  and  to  require  nothing.     That  is 
the  path  we  all  like  when  we  set  out  on  our  abandonment  of 
egoism  —  the  path  of   martyrdom    and  endurance,  where   the 
palm-branches  grow,  rather  than  the  steep  highway  of  tolerance, 
just  allowance,  and  self-blame,  where  there  are  no  leafy  honours 
to  be  gathered  and  worn. 

The  old  books,  Virgil,   Euclid,  and  Aldrich  —  that  wrinkled 
fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge  —  had  been  all  laid  by  ;  for  Maggie 


164  A    VOICE  FROM   THE  PAST 

had  turned  her  back  on  the  vain  ambition  to  share  the  thoughts 
of  the  wise.  In  her  first  ardour  she  flung  away  the  books  with  a 
sort  of  triumph  that  she  had  risen  above  the  need  of  them  ;  and 
if  they  had  been  her  own,  she  would  have  burned  them,  be- 
lieving that  she  would  never  repent.  She  read  so  eagerly  and 
constantly  in  her  three  books,  the  Bible,  Thomas  a  Kempis,  and 
the  Christian  Year  (no  longer  rejected  as  a  "hymn-book  "),  that 
they  filled  her  mind  with  a  constant  stream  of  rhythmic  memo- 
ries ;  and  she  was  too  ardently  learning  to  see  all  nature  and 
life  in  the  light  of  her  new  faith  to  need  any  other  material  for 
her  mind  to  work  on,  as  she  sat  with  her  well-plied  needle,  mak- 
ing shirts  and  other  complicated  stitchings  falsely  called  "plain" 
• —  by  no  means  plain  to  Maggie,  since  wristband  and  sleeve 
and  the  like  had  a  capability  of  being  sewed  in  wrong  side  out- 
ward in  moments  of  mental  wandering. 

Hanging  diligently  over  her  sewing,  Maggie  was  a  sight  any 
one  might  have  been  pleased  to  look  at.  That  new  inward  life 
of  hers,  notwithstanding  some  volcanic  upheavings  of  impris- 
oned passions,  yet  shone  out  in  her  face  with  a  tender  soft  light 
that  mingled  itself  as  added  loveliness  with  the  gradual  en- 
riched colour  and  outline  of  her  blossoming  youth.  Her  mother 
felt  the  change  in  her  with  a  sort  of  puzzled  wonder  that  Maggie 
should  be  "  growing  up  so  good  ;  "  it  was  amazing  that  this  once 
"  contrary  "  child  was  become  so  submissive,  so  backward  to 
assert  her  own  will.  Maggie  used  to  look  up  from  her  work 
and  find  her  mother's  eyes  fixed  upon  her:  they  were  watching 
and  waiting  for  the  large  young  glance,  as  if  her  elder  frame  got 
some  needful  warmth  from  it.  The  mother  was  getting  fond  of 
her  tall,  brown  girl,  the  only  bit  of  furniture  now  on  which  she 
could  bestow  her  anxiety  and  pride  ;  and  Maggie,  in  spite  of  her 
own  ascetic  wish  to  have  no  personal  adornment,  was  obliged  to 
give  way  to  her  mother  about  her  hair,  and  submit  to  have  the 
abundant  black  locks  plaited  into  a  coronet  on  the  summit  of 
her  head,  after  the  pitiable  fashion  of  those  antiquated  times. 

"  Let  your  mother  have  that  bit  o'  pleasure,  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Tulliver ;  "  I'd  trouble  enough  with  your  hair  once." 

So  Maggie,  glad  of  anything  that  would  soothe  her  mother, 
and  cheer  their  long  day  together,  consented  to  the  vain  decora- 


GEORGE  ELIOT  165 

tion,  and  showed  a  queenly  head  above  her  old  frocks  —  steadily 
refusing,  however,  to  look  at  herself  in  the  glass.  Mrs.  TuUiver 
liked  to  call  the  father's  attention  to  Maggie's  hair  and  other 
unexpected  virtues,  but  he  had  a  brusque  reply  to  give. 

"  I  knew  well  enough  what  she'd  be,  before  now  —  it's  nothing 
new  to  me.  But  it's  a  pity  she  isn't  made  o'  commoner  stuff; 
she'll  be  thrown  away,  I  doubt :  there'll  be  nobody  to  marry  her 
as  is  fit  for  her." 

•  And  Maggie's  graces  of  mind  and  body  fed  his  gloom.  He  sat 
patiently  enough  while  she  read  him  a  chapter,  or  said  something 
timidly  when  they  were  alone  together  about  trouble  being  turned 
into  a  blessing.  He  took  it  all  as  part  of  his  daughter's  goodness, 
which  made  his  misfortune  the  sadder  to  him  because  they  dam- 
aged her  chance  in  life.  In  a  mind  charged  with  an  eager  pur- 
pose and  an  unsatisfied  vindictiveness,  there  is  no  room  for  new 
feelings:  Mr.  TuUiver  did  not  want  spiritual  consolation  —  he 
wanted  to  shake  off  the  degradation  of  debt,  and  to  have  his 
revenge. 

AN    IMPETUOUS    LOVER 

GEORGE   MEREDITH 

[From  chapters  8-10  of  Beauchamfs  Career,  1875.  Nevil  Beauchamp, 
a  young  officer  in  the  English  navy,  is  deeply  in  love  with  Renee,  the  sister  of 
Roland,  a  young  French  officer,  his  intimate  friend.  She  is,  however,  betrothed 
to  the  marquis,  who  is  much  older  than  she.     The  scene  is  in  Venice.] 

The  marquis  was  clad  in  a  white  silken  suit,  and  a  dash  of  red 
round  the  neck  set  off  his  black  beard  ;  but  when  he  lifted  his 
broad  straw  hat,  a  baldness  of.  sconce  shone.  There  was  ele- 
gance in  his  gestures  ;  he  looked  a  gentleman,  though  an  ultra- 
Gallican  one,  that  is,  too  scrupulously  finished  for  our  taste, 
smelling  of  the  valet.  He  had  the  habit  of  balancing  his  body 
on  the  hips,  as  if  to  emphasize  a  juvenile  vigour,  and  his  general 
attitude  suggested  an  idea  that  he  had  an  oration  for  you.  Seen 
from  a  distance,  his  baldness  and  strong  nasal  projection  were 
not  winning  features  ;  the  youthful  standard  he  had  evidently 
prescribed  to  himself  in  his  dress  and  his  ready  jerks  of  acqui- 


l66  AM  IMPETUOUS  LOVER 

escence  and  delivery  might  lead  a  forlorn  rival  to  conceive  him 
something  of  an  Ogre  straining  at  an  Adonis.  It  could  not  be 
disputed  that  he  bore  his  disappointment  remarkably  well ;  the 
more  laudably,  because  his  position  was  within  a  step  of  the 
ridiculous,  for  he  had  shot  himself  to  the  mark,  despising  sleep, 
heat,  dust,  dirt,  diet,  and  lo,  that  charming  object  was  delib- 
erately slipping  out  of  reach,  proving  his  headlong  journey  an 
absurdity.  As  he  stood  declining  to  participate  in  the  lunatic 
voyage,  and  bidding  them  perforce  good  speed  off  the  tip  of  his 
fingers,  Ren^e  turned  her  eyes  on  him,  and  away.  She  felt  a 
little  smart  of  pity,  arising  partly  from  her  antagonism  to  Ro- 
land's covert  laughter ;  but  it  was  the  colder  kind  of  feminine 
pity,  which  is  nearer  to  contempt  than  to  tenderness.  She  sat 
still,  placid  outwardly,  in  fear  of  herself,  so  strange  she  found  it 
to  be  borne  out  to  sea  by  her  sailor  lover  under  the  eyes  of  her 
betrothed.  She  was  conscious  of  a  tumultuous  rush  of  sensa- 
tions, none  of  them  of  a  very  healthy  kind,  coming  as  it  were 
from  an  unlocked  chamber  of  her  bosom,  hitherto  of  unimagined 
contents ;  and  the  marquis  being  now  on  the  spot  to  defend  his 
own,  she  no  longer  blamed  Nevil :  it  was  otherwise  utterly.  All 
the  sweeter  side  of  pity  was  for  him.  He  was  at  first  amazed  by 
the  sudden  exquisite  transition.  Tenderness  breathed  from  her, 
in  voice,  in  look,  in  touch ;  for  she  accepted  his  help  that  he 
might  lead  her  to  the  stern  of  the  vessel,  to  gaze  well  on  setting 
Venice,  and  sent  lightnings  up  his  veins  ;  she  leaned  beside  him 
over  the  vessel's  rails,  not  separated  from  him  by  the  breadth  of 
a  fluttering  riband.  Like  him,  she  scarcely  heard  her  brother 
when  he  for  an  instant  intervened,  and  with  Nevil  she  said  adieu 
to  Venice,  where  the  faint  red  Doge's  palace  was  like  the  fading 
of  another  sunset  northwestward  of  the  glory  along  the  hills. 
Venice  dropped  lower  and  lower,  breasting  the  waters,  until  it 
was  a  thin  line  in  air.  The  line  was  broken,  and  ran  in  dots, 
with  here  and  there  a  pillar  standing  on  opal  sky.  At  last  the 
topmost  campanile  sank. 

Renee  looked  up  at  the  sails,  and  back  for  the  submerged 
city. 

"  It  is  gone  !  "  she  said,  as  though  a  marvel  had  been  worked ; 
and  swiftly :  "  we  have  one  night  1 " 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  167 

She  breathed  it  half  like  a  question,  like  a  petition,  catching 
her  breath.  The  adieu  to  Venice  was  her  assurance  of  liberty, 
but  Venice  hidden  rolled  on  her  the  sense  of  the  return  and 
plucked  shrewdly  at  her  tether  of  bondage. 

They  set  their  eyes  toward  the  dark  gulf  ahead.  The  night 
was  growing  starry.     The  softly  ruffled  Adriatic  tossed  no  foam. 

"One  night?"  said  Nevil ;  "one?     Why  only  one  ?  " 

Ren^e  shuddered.     "  Oh  !  do  not  speak." 

"  Then,  give  me  your  hand." 

"  There,  my  friend." 

He  pressed  a  hand  that  was  like  a  quivering  chord.  She  gave 
it  as  though  it  had  been  his  own  to  claim.  But  that  it  meant  no 
more  than  a  hand  he  knew  by  the  very  frankness  of  her  com- 
pliance, in  the  manner  natural  to  her ;  and  this  was  the  charm, 
it  filled  him  with  her  peculiar  image  and  spirit,  and  while  he 
held  it  he  was  subdued. 

Lying  on  the  deck  af  midnight,  wrapt  in  his  cloak  and  a  coil 
of  rope  for  a  pillow,  considerably  apart  from  jesting  Roland,  the 
recollection  of  that  little  sanguine  spot  of  time  when  Rente's 
life-blood  ran  with  his,  began  to  heave  under  him  like  a  swelling 
sea.  For  Nevil  the  starred  black  night  was  Ren^e.  Half  his 
heart  was  in  it ;  but  the  combative  division  flew  to  the  morning 
and  the  deadly  iniquity  of  the  marriage,  from  which  he  resolved 
to  save  her ;  in  pure  devotedness,  he  believed.  And  so  he  closed 
his  eyes.  She,  a  girl,  with  a  heart  fluttering  open  and  fearing, 
felt  only  that  she  had  lost  herself  somewhere,  and  she  had 
neither  sleep  nor  symbols,  nothing  but  a  sense  of  infinite 
strangeness,  as  though  she  were  borne  superhumanly  through 
space. 

The  breeze  blew  steadily,  enough  to  swell  the  sails  and  sweep 
the  vessel  on  smoothly.  The  night  air  dropped  no  moisture  on 
deck. 

Nevil  Beauchamp  dozed  for  an  hour.  He  was  awakened  by 
light  on  his  eyelids,  and  starting  up  beheld  the  many  pinnacles 
of  grey  and  red  rocks  and  shadowy  high  white  regions  at  the 
head  of  the  gulf  waiting  for  the  sun  ;  and  the  sun  struck  them. 
One  by  one  they  came  out  in  crimson  flame,  till  the  vivid  host 
appeared  to  have  stepped  forward.     The  shadows  on  the  snow- 


1 68  AN  IMPETUOUS  LOVER 

fields  deepened  to  purple  below  an  irradiation  of  rose  and  pink 
and  dazzling  silver.  There  of  all  the  world  you  might  imagine 
gods  to  sit.  A  crowd  of  mountains  endless  in  range,  erect,  or 
flowing,  shattered  and  arid,  or  leaning  in  smooth  lustre,  hangs 
above  the  gulf.  The  mountains  are  sovereign  Alps,  and  the  sea 
is  beneath  them.  The  whole  gigantic  body  keeps  the  sea,  as 
with  a  hand,  to  right  and  left. 

Nevil's  personal  rapture  craved  for  Ren^e  with  the  second 
long  breath  he  drew ;  and  now  the  curtain  of  her  tent-cabin 
parted,  and  greeting  him  with  a  half  smile,  she  looked  out. 
The  Adriatic  was  dark,  the  Alps  had  heaven  to  themselves. 
Crescents  and  hollows,  rosy  mounds,  white  shelves,  shining 
ledges,  domes  and  peaks,  all  the  towering  heights  were  in  illu- 
mination from  Friuli  into  farthest  Tyrol ;  beyond  earth  to  the 
stricken  sense  of  the  gazers.  Colour  was  steadfast  on  the  mas- 
sive front  ranks  :  it  wavered  in  the  remoteness,  and  was  quick 
and  dim  as  though  it  fell  on  beating  wings  ;  but  there  too 
divine  colour  seized  and  shaped  forth  solid  forms,  and  thence 
away  to  others  in  uttermost  distances  where  the  incredible  flick- 
ering gleam  of  new  heights  arose,  that  soared,  or  stretched  their 
white  uncertain  curves  in  sky-like  wings  traversing  infinity. 

It  seemed  unlike  morning  to  the  lovers,  but  as  if  night  had 
broken  with  a  revelation  of  the  kingdom  in  the  heart  of  night. 
While  the  broad  smooth  waters  rolled  unlighted  beneath  that 
transfigured  upper  sphere,  it  was  possible  to  think  the  scene 
might  vanish  like  a  view  caught  out  of  darkness  by  lightning. 
Alp  over  burning  Alp,  and  around  them  a  hueless  dawn  !  The 
two  exulted ;  they  threw  off  the  load  of  wonderment,  and  in 
looking  they  had  the  delicious  sensation  of  flight  in  their  veins. 

Ren^e  stole  toward  Nevil.  She  was  mystically  shaken  and 
at  his  mercy ;  and  had  he  said  then,  "  Over  to  the  other  land, 
away  from  Venice !  "  she  would  have  bent  her  head. 

She  asked  his  permission  to  rouse  her  brother  and  madame, 
so  that  they  should  not  miss  the  scene. 

Roland  lay  in  the  folds  of  his  military  greatcoat,  too  com- 
pletely happy  to  be  disturbed,  Nevil  Beauchamp  chose  to  think ; 
and  Rosamund  Culling,  he  told  Ren^e,  had  been  separated  from 
her  husband  last  on  these  waters. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  1 69 

"  Ah !  to  be  unhappy  here,"  sighed  Ren^e.  "  I  fancied  it 
when  I  begged  her  to  join  us.     It  was  in  her  voice." 

The  impressionable  girl  trembled.  He  knew  he  was  dear  to 
her,  and  for  that  reason,  judging  of  her  by  himself,  he  forbore 
to  urge  his  advantage,  conceiving  it  ba.se  to  fear  that  loving  him 
she  could  yield  her  hand  to  another  ;  and  it  was  the  critical 
instant.  She  was  almost  in  his  grasp.  A  word  of  sharp  en- 
treaty would  have  swung  her  round  to  see  her  situation  with  his 
eyes,  and  detest  and  shrink  from  it.  He  committed  the  capital 
fault  of  treating  her  as  his  equal  in  passion  and  courage,  not  as 
metal  ready  to  run  into  the  mould  under  temporary  stress  of 
fire. 

Even  later  in  the  morning,  when  she  was  cooler,  and  he  had 
come  to  speak,  more  than  her  own  strength  was  needed  to  resist 
him.  The  struggle  was  hard.  The  boat's  head  had  been  put 
about  for  Venice,  and  they  were  among  the  dusky-red  Chioggian 
sails  in  fishing  quarters,  expecting  momently  a  campanile  to  sig- 
nal the  sea-city  over  the  level.  Ren^e  waited  for  it  in  suspense. 
To  her  it  stood  for  the  implacable  key  of  a  close  and  stifling 
chamber,  so  different  from  this  brilliant  boundless  region  of  air, 
that  she  sickened  with  the  apprehension  ;  but  she  knew  it  must 
appear,  and  soon,  and  therewith  the  contraction  and  the  gloom 
it  indicated  to  her  mind.  He  talked  of  the  beauty.  She  fretted 
at  it,  and  was  her  petulant  self  again  in  an  epigrammatic  note 
of  discord. 

He  let  that  pass. 

"  Last  night  you  said  *  one  night,'  "  he  whispered.  "  We  will 
have  another  sail  before  we  leave  Venice." 

"  One  night,  and  in  a  little  time  one  hour !  and  next  one  min- 
ute !  and  there's  the  end,"  said  Renee. 

Her  tone  alarmed  him.  "  Have  you  forgotten  that  you  gave 
me  your  hand  ?  " 

"  I  gave  my  hand  to  my  friend." 

*'  You  gave  it  to  me  for  good." 

"  No  ;  I  dared  not ;  it  is  not  mine." 

"  It  is  mine,"  said  Beauchamp. 

Ren^e  pointed  to  the  dots  and  severed  lines  and  isolated  col- 
umns of  the  rising  city,  black  over  bright  sea. 


I/O  AN  IMPETUOUS  LOVER 

"  Mine  there  as  well  as  here,"  said  Beauchamp,  and  looked  at 
her  with  the  fiery  zeal  of  eyes  intent  on  minutest  signs  for  a  con- 
firmation, to  shake  that  sad  negation  of  her  face. 

"  Ren^e,  you  cannot  break  the  pledge  of  the  hand  you  gave 
me  last  night." 

"  You  tell  me  how  weak  a  creature  I  am." 

"  You  are  me,  myself  ;  more,  better  than  me.  And  say,  would 
you  not  rather  coast  here  and  keep  the  city  under  water  ?  " 

She  could  not  refrain  from  confessing  that  she  would  be  glad 
never  to  land  there. 

"  So,  when  you  land,  go  straight  to  your  father,"  said  Beau- 
champ,  to  whose  conception  it  was  a  simple  act  resulting  from 
the  avowal. 

"  Oh  !  you  torture  me,"  she  cried.  Her  eyelashes  were  heavy 
with  tears.  "  I  cannot  do  it.  Think  what  you  will  of  me  ! 
And,  my  friend,  help  me.  Should  you  not  help  me  ?  I  have 
not  once  actually  disobeyed  my  father,  and  he  has  indulged  me, 
but  he  has  been  sure  of  me  as  a  dutiful  girl.  That  is  my  source 
of  self-respect.     My  friend  can  always  be  my  friend." 

"  Yes,  while  it's  not  too  late,"  said  Beauchamp. 

She  observed  a  sudden  stringing  of  his  features.  He  called 
to  the  chief  boatman,  made  his  command  intelligible  to  that 
portly  capitano,  and  went  on  to  Roland,  who  was  puffing  his 
after-breakfast  cigarette  in  conversation  with  the  tolerant  Eng- 
lish lady. 

"  You  condescend  to  notice  us,  signor  ? "  said  Roland.  "  The 
vessel  is  up  to  some  manoeuvre  ?  " 

"  We  have  decided  not  to  land,"  replied  Beauchamp.  "  And, 
Roland,"  he  checked  the  Frenchman's  shout  of  laughter,  "  I 
think  of  making  for  Trieste.  Let  me  speak  to  you,  to  both. 
Ren^e  is  in  misery.     She  must  not  go  back." 

Roland  sprang  to  his  feet,  stared,  and  walked  over  to 
Rende. 

"  Nevil,"  said  Rosamond  Culling,  "  do  you  know  what  you  are 
doing?" 

"  Perfectly,"  said  he.  "  Come  to  her.  She  is  a  girl,  and  I 
must  think  and  act  for  her." 

Roland  met  them. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  i^I 

"  My  dear  Nevil,  are  you  in  a  state  of  delusion  ?  Ren^e 
denies  .  .  ." 

"  There's  no  delusion,  Roland.  I  am  determined  to  stop  a 
catastrophe.  I  see  it  as  plainly  as  those  Alps.  There  is  only 
one  way,  and  that's  the  one  I  have  chosen." 

"  Chosen  !  my  friend.  But  allow  me  to  remind  you  that  you 
have  others  to  consult.     And  Ren^e  herself  .  .  ." 

"  She  is  a  girl.     She  loves  me,  and  I  speak  for  her." 

"  She  has  said  it?  " 

"  She  has  more  than  said  it." 

"  You  strike  me  to  the  deck,  Nevil.  Either  you  are  down- 
right mad — which  seems  the  likeliest,  or  we  are  all  in  a  nightmare. 
Can  you  suppose  I  will  let  my  sister  be  carried  away  the  deuce 
knows  where,  while  her  father  is  expecting  her,  and  to  fulfil  an 
engagement  affecting  his  pledged  word  ?  " 

Beauchamp  simply  replied  — 

"  Come  to  her." 

The  four  sat  together  under  the  shadow  of  the  helmsman,  by 
whom  they  were  regarded  as  voyagers  in  debate  upon  the  ques- 
tion of  some  hours  further  on  saltwater.  "  No  bora,"  he  threw 
in  at  intervals,  to  assure  them  that  the  obnoxious  wind  of  the 
Adriatic  need  not  disturb  their  calculations. 

It  was  an  extraordinary  sitting,  but  none  of  the  parties  to  it 
thought  of  it  so  when  Nevil  Beauchamp  had  plunged  them  into 
it.  He  compelled  them,  even  Ren^e  —  and  she  would  have 
flown  had  there  been  wings  on  her  shoulders  —  to  feel  some- 
thing of  the  life  and  death  issues  present  to  his  soul,  and  submit 
to  the  discussion,  in  plain  language  of  the  market-place,  of  the 
most  delicate  of  human  subjects  for  her,  for  him,  and  hardly  less 
for  the  other  two.  An  overmastering  fervour  can  do  this.  It 
upsets  the  vessel  we  float  in,  and  we  have  to  swim  our  way  out 
of  deep  waters  by  the  directest  use  of  the  natural  faculties,  with- 
out much  reflection  on  the  change  in  our  habits.  To  others  not 
under  such  an  influence  the  position  seems  impossible.  This 
discussion  occurred.  Beauchamp  opened  the  case  in  a  couple 
of  sentences,  and  when  the  turn  came  for  Ren^e  to  speak,  and 
she  shrank  from  the  task  in  manifest  pain,  he  spoke  for  her, 
and  no  one  heard  her  contradiction.     She  would  have  wished 


172  AN  IMPETUOUS  LOVER 

the  fearful  impetuous  youth  to  succeed  if  she  could  have  slept 
through  the  storm  he  was  rousing. 

Roland  appealed  to  her.  "  You !  my  sister,  it  is  you  that 
consent  to  this  wild  freak,  enough  to  break  your  father's  heart  ?  " 

He  had  really  forgotten  his  knowledge  of  her  character  — 
what  much  he  knew  —  in  the  dust  of  the  desperation  flung  about 
her  by  Nevil  Beauchamp. 

She  shook  her  head  ;  she  had  not  consented. 

"  The  man  she  loves  is  her  voice  and  her  will,"  said  Beau- 
champ.     "  She  gives  me  her  hand  and  I  lead  her." 

Roland  questioned  her.  It  could  not  be  denied  that  she  had 
given  her  hand,  and  her  bewildered  senses  made  her  think  that 
it  had  been  with  an  entire  abandonment ;  and  in  the  heat  of  her 
conflict  of  feelings,  the  deliciousness  of  yielding  to  him  curled 
round  and  enclosed  her,  as  in  a  cool  humming  sea-shell. 

"  Ren^e  !  "  said  Roland. 

"  Brother  !  "  she  cried. 

"  You  see  that  I  cannot  suffer  you  to  be  borne  away." 

"No;  do  not!" 

But  the  boat  was  flying  fast  from  Venice,  and  she  could  have 
fallen  at  his  feet  and  kissed  them  for  not  countermanding  it. 

"  You  are  in  my  charge,  my  sister." 

"Yes." 

"  And  now,  Nevil,  between  us  two,"  said  Roland. 

Beauchamp  required  no  challenge.  He  seemed,  to  Rosamund 
Culling,  twice  older  than  he  was,  strangely  adept,  yet  more 
strangely  wise  of  worldly  matters,  and  eloquent  too.  But  it  was 
the  eloquence  of  frenzy,  madness,  in  Roland's  ear.  The  arro- 
gation  of  a  terrible  foresight  that  harped  on  present  and  future 
to  persuade  him  of  the  righteousness  of  this  headlong  proceed- 
ing advocated  by  his  friend,  vexed  his  natural  equanimity.  The 
argument  was  out  of  the  domain  of  logic.  He  could  hardly  sit 
to  listen,  and  tore  at  his  moustache  at  each  end.  Nevertheless 
his  sister  listened.  The  mad  Englishman  accomplished  the 
miracle  of  making  her  listen,  and  appear  to  consent. 

Roland  laughed  scornfully.  "  Why  Trieste  ?  I  ask  you,  why 
Trieste  ?  You  can't  have  a  Catholic  priest  at  your  bidding, 
without  her  father's  sanction." 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  1/3 

"We  leave  Ren^e  at  Trieste,  under  the  care  of  madame," 
said  Beauchamp,  "  and  we  return  to  Venice,  and  ,T  go  to  your 
father.     This  method  protects  Ren^e  from  annoyance." 

"  It  strikes  me  that  if  she  arrives  at  any  determination  she 
must  take  the  consequences." 

"  She  does.  She  is  brave  enough  for  that.  But  she  is  a  girl ; 
she  has  to  fight  the  battle  of  her  life  in  a  day,  and  I  am  her 
lover,  and  she  leaves  it  to  me." 

"  Is  my  sister  such  a  coward  ?  "  said  Roland, 

Ren^e  could  only  call  out  his  name. 

"  It  will  never  do,  my  dear  Nevil ;  "  Roland  tried  to  deal  with 
his  unreasonable  friend  affectionately.  "  I  am  responsible  for 
her.  It's  your  own  fault  —  if  you  had  not  saved  my  life  I  should 
not  have  been  in  your  way.  Here  I  am,  and  your  proposition 
can't  be  heard  of.  Do  as  you  will,  both  of  you,  when  you  step 
ashore  in  Venice." 

"  If  she  goes  back  she  is  lost,"  said  Beauchamp,  and  he 
attacked  Roland  on  the  side  of  his  love  for  Renee,  and  for  him. 

Roland  was  inflexible.  Seeing  which,  Ren^e  said,  "  To 
Venice,  quickly,  my  brother  !  "  and  now  she  almost  sighed  with 
relief  to  think  that  she  was  escaping  from  this  hurricane  of 
a  youth,  who  swept  her  off  her  feet  and  wrapt  her  whole  being 
in  a  delirium. 

"  We  were  in  sight  of  the  city  just  now  !  "  cried  Roland, 
staring  and  frowning.     "  What's  this  ?  " 

Beauchamp  answered  him  calmly,  "  The  boat's  under  my 
orders." 

"  Talk  madness,  but  don't  act  it,"  said  Roland.  "  Round 
with  the  boat  at  once.     Hundred  devils  !  you  haven't  your  wits." 

To  his  amazement,  Beauchamp  refused  to  alter  the  boat's 
present  course. 

"  You  heard  my  sister  ?  "  said  Roland. 

"  You  frighten  her,"  said  Beauchamp. 

"  You  heard  her  wish  to  return  to  Venice,  I  say." 

"  She  has  no  wish  that  is  not  mine." 

It  came  to  Roland's  shouting  his  command  to  the  men,  while 
Beauchamp  pointed  the  course  on  for  them. 

*'  You  will  make  this  a  ghastly  pleasantry,"  said  Roland. 


174  ^^  IMPETUOUS  LOVER 

"  I  do  what  I  know  to  be  right,"  said  Beauchamp. 

"  You  want  an  altercation  before  these  fellows  ?  " 

"  There  won't  be  one ;  they  obey  me." 

Roland  blinked  rapidly  in  wrath  and  doubt  of  mind. 

"  Madame,"  he  stooped  to  Rosamund  Culling,  with  a  happy 
inspiration,  "  convince  him  ;  you  have  known  him  longer  than 
I,  and  I  desire  not  to  lose  my  friend.  And  tell  me,  madame  — 
I  can  trust  you  to  be  truth  itself,  and  you  can  see  it  is  actually 
the  time  for  truth  to  be  spoken  —  is  he  justified  in  taking  my 
sister's  hand  ?  You  perceive  that  I  am  obliged  to  appeal  to 
you.  Is  he  not  dependent  on  his  uncle  ?  And  is  he  not,  there- 
fore, in  your  opinion,  bound  in  reason  as  well  as  in  honour  to 
wait  for  his  uncle's  approbation  before  he  undertakes  to  speak 
for  my  sister  ?  And,  since  the  occasion  is  urgent,  let  me  ask  you 
one  thing  more':  whether,  by  your  knowledge  of  his  position,  you 
think  him  entitled  to  presume  to  decide  upon  my  sister's  des- 
tiny ?  She,  you  are  aware,  is  not  so  young  but  that  she  can 
speak  for  herself.  .  .  ." 

"  There  you  are  wrong,  Roland,"  said  Beauchamp  ;  "  she  can 
neither  speak  nor  think  for  herself:  you  lead  her  blindfolded." 

"  And  you,  my  friend,  suppose  that  you  are  wiser  than  any  of 
us.  It  is  understood.  I  venture  to  appeal  to  madame  on  the 
point  in  question." 

The  poor  lady's  heart  beat  dismally.  She  was  constrained  to 
answer,  and  said,  "  His  uncle  is  one  who  must  be  consulted." 

"  You  hear  that,  Nevil,"  said  Roland. 

Beauchamp  looked  at  her  sharply ;  angrily,  Rosamund  feared. 
She  had  struck  his  hot  brain  with  the  vision  of  Everard  Romfrey 
as  with  a  bar  of  iron.  If  Rosamund  had  inclined  to  the  view 
that  he  was  sure  of  his  uncle's  support,  it  would  have  seemed 
to  him  a  simple  confirmation  of  his  sentiments,  but  he  was  not 
of  the  same  temper  now  as  when  he  exclaimed,  "  Let  him  see 
her  !  "  and  could  imagine,  give  him  only  Rente's  love,  the  world 
of  men  subservient  to  his  wishes. 

Then  he  was  dreaming  ;  he  was  now  in  fiery  earnest,  for  that 
reason  accessible  to  facts  presented  to  him ;  and  Rosamund's 
reluctantly  spoken  words  brought  his  stubborn  uncle  before  his 
eyes,  inflicting  a  sense  of  helplessness  of  the  bitterest  kind. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  1/5 

They  were  all  silent.  Beauchamp  stared  at  the  lines  of  the 
deck-planks. 

His  scheme  to  rescue  Ren^e  was  right  and  good ;  but  was  he 
the  man  that  should  do  it  ?  And  was  she,  moreover,  he  thought, 
speculating  on  her  bent  head,  the  woman  to  be  forced  to  brave 
the  world  with  him,  and  poverty?  She  gave  him  no  sign.  He 
was  assuredly  not  the  man  to  pretend  to  powers  he  did  not  feel 
himself  to  possess,  and  though  from  a  personal,  and  still  more 
from  a  lover's,  inability  to  see  all  round  him  at  one  time  and 
accurately  to  weigh  the  forces  at  his  disposal,  he  had  gone  far, 
he  was  not  a  wilful  dreamer  nor  so  very  selfish  a  lover.  The 
instant  his  consciousness  of  a  superior  strength  failed  him  he 
acknowledged  it. 

Ren^e  did  not  look  up.  She  had  none  of  those  lightnings  of 
primitive  energy,  nor  the  noble  rashness"  and  reliance  on  her 
lover,  which  his  imagination  had  filled  her  with  ;  none.  That 
was  plain.  She  could  not  even  venture  to  second  him.  Had 
she  done  so  he  would  have  held  out.  He  walked  to  the  head 
of  the  boat  without  replying. 

Soon  after  this  the  boat  was  set  for  Venice  again. 


THE   CIVIL   WAR 

THOMAS   BABINGTON   MACAULAY 

[From  chapter  i  of  The  History  of  England  from  the  Accession  of  James 
the  Second,  1848.] 

In  August  1642  the  sword  was  at  length  drawn;  and  soon,  in 
almost  every  shire  of  the  kingdom,  two  hostile  factions  appeared 
in  arms  against  each  other.  It  is  not  easy  to  say  which  of  the 
contending  parties  was  at  first  the  more  formidable.  The  Houses 
commanded  London  and  the  counties  round  London,  the  fleet, 
the  navigation  of  the  Thames,  and  most  of  the  large  towns  and 
seaports.  They  had  at  their  disposal  almost  all  the  military  stores 
of  the  kingdom,  and  were  able  to  raise  duties,  both  on  goods  im- 
ported from  foreign  countries,  and  on  some  important  products 
of  domestic  industry.     The  King  was  ill  provided  with  artillery 


1^6  THE    CIVIL    WAR 

and  ammunition.  Tlie  taxes  which  he  laid  on  the  rural  districts 
occupied  by  his  troops  produced,  it  is  probable,  a  sum  far  less 
than  that  which  the  Parliament  drew  from  the  city  of  London 
alone.  He  relied,  indeed,  chiefly,  for  pecuniary  aid,  on  the  mu- 
nificence of  his  opulent  adherents.  Many  of  these  mortgaged  their 
land,  pawned  their  jewels,  and  broke  up  their  silver  chargers  and 
christening  bowls,  in  order  to  assist  him.  But  experience  has 
fully  proved  that  the  voluntary  liberality  of  individuals,  even  in 
times  of  the  greatest  excitement,  is  a  poor  financial  resource  when 
compared  with  severe  and  methodical  taxation,  which  presses  on 
the  willing  and  unwilHng  aUke. 

Charles,  however,  had  one  advantage,  which,  if  he  had  used 
it  well,  would  have  more  than  compensated  for  the  want  of 
stores  and  money,  and  which,  notwithstanding  his  mismanage- 
ment, gave  him,  during  some  months,  a  superiority  in  the  war. 
His  troops  at  first  fought  much  better  than  those  of  the  Parlia- 
ment. Both  armies,  it  is  true,  were  almost  entirely  composed  of 
men  who  had  never  seen  a  field  of  battle.  Nevertheless,  the  dif- 
ference was  great.  The  parliamentary  ranks  were  filled  with  hire- 
lings whom  want  and  idleness  had  induced  to  enlist.  Hampden's 
regiment  was  regarded  as  one  of  the  best ;  and  even  Hampden's 
regiment  was  described  by  Cromwell  as  a  mere  rabble  of  tapsters 
and  serving  men  out  of  place.  The  royal  army,  on  the  other 
hand,  consisted  in  great  part  of  gentlemen,  high  spirited,  ardent, 
accustomed  to  consider  dishonour  as  more  terrible  than  death, 
accustomed  to  fencing,  to  the  use  of  fire  arms,  to  bold  riding,  and 
to  manly  and  perilous  sport,  which  has  been  well  called  the  image 
of  war.  Such  gentlemen,  mounted  on  their  favourite  horses,  and 
commanding  httle  bands,  composed  of  their  younger  brothers, 
grooms,  gamekeepers  and  huntsmen,  were,  from  the  very  first  day 
on  which  they  took  the  field,  qualified  to  play  their  part  with 
credit  in  a  skirmish.  The  steadiness,  the  prompt  obedience,  the 
mechanical  precision  of  movement,  which  are  characteristic  of  the 
regular  soldier,  these  gallant  volunteers  never  attained.  But  they 
were  at  first  opposed  to  enemies  as  undisciplined  as  themselves, 
and  far  less  active,  athletic,  and  daring.  For  a  time,  therefore,  the 
Cavaliers  were  successful  in  almost  every  encounter. 

The  Houses  had  also  been  unfortunate  in  the  choice  of  a  gen- 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  177 

eral.  The  rank  and  wealth  of  the  Earl  of  Essex  made  him  one 
of  the  most  important  members  of  the  parliamentary  party.  He 
had  borne  arms  on  the  Continent  with  credit,  and,  when  the  war 
began,  had  as  high  a  military  reputation  as  any  man  in  the  coun- 
try. But  ,it  soon  appeared  that  he  was  unfit  for  the  post  of 
Commander  in  Chief.  He  had  little  energy  and  no  originality. 
The  methodical  tactics  which  he  had  learned  in  the  war  of  the 
Palatinate  did  not  save  him  from  being  surprised  and  baffled  by 
such  a  Captain  as  Rupert,  who  could  claim  no  higher  fame  than 
that  of  an  enterprising  partisan. 

Nor  were  the  officers  who  held  the  chief  commissions  under 
Essex  qualified  to  supply  what  was  wanting  in  him.  For  this, 
indeed,  the  Houses  are  scarcely  to  be  blamed.  In  a  country 
which  had  not,  within  the  memory  of  the  oldest  person  living, 
made  war  on  a  great  scale  by  land,  generals  of  tried  skill  and  valour 
were  not  to  be  found.  It  was  necessary,  therefore,  in  the  first 
instance,  to  trust  untried  men ;  and  the  preference  was  naturally 
given  to  men  distinguished  either  by  their  station,  or  by  the  abili- 
ties which  they  had  displayed  in  parliament.  In  scarcely  a  sin- 
gle instance,  however,  was  the  selection  fortunate.  Neither  the 
grandees  nor  the  orators  proved  good  soldiers.  The  Earl  of 
Stamford,  one  of  the  greatest  nobles  of  England,  was  routed  by  the 
Royalists  at  Stratton.  Nathaniel  Fiennes,  inferior  to  none  of  his 
contemporaries  in  talents  for  civil  business,  disgraced  himself  by 
the  pusillanimous  surrender  of  Bristol.  Indeed,  of  all  the  states- 
mea  who  at  this  juncture  accepted  high  military  commands, 
Hampden  alone  appears  to  have  carried  into  the  camp  the  capac- 
ity and  strength  of  mind  which  had  made  him  eminent  in  politics. 

When  the  war  had  lasted  a  year,  the  advantage  was  decidedly 
with  the  Royalists.  They  were  victorious,  both  in  the  western 
and  in  the  northern  counties.  They  had  wrested  Bristol,  the 
second  city  in  the  kingdom,  from  the  Parliament.  They  had  won 
several  battles,  and  had  not  sustained  a  single  serious  or  ignomini- 
ous defeat.  Among  the  Roundheads  adversity  had  begun  to  pro- 
duce dissension  and  discontent.  The  Parliament  was  kept  in 
alarm,  sometimes  by  plots,  and  sometimes  by  riots.  It  was  thought 
necessary  to  fortify  London  against  the  royal  army,  and  to  hang 
some  disaffected  citizens  at  their  own  doors.     Several  of  the  most 


178      "  THE   CIVIL    WAR 

distinguished  peers  who  had  hitherto  remained  at  Westminster 
fled  to  the  court  at  Oxford ;  nor  can  it  be  doubted  that,  if  the 
operations  of  the  Cavahers  had,  at  this  season,  been  directed  by 
a  sagacious  and  powerful  mind,  Charles  would  have  soon  marched 
in  triumph  to  Whitehall. 

But  the  King  suffered  the  auspicious  moment  to  pass  away ; 
and  it  never  returned.  In  August  1643  he  sate  down  before  the 
city  of  Gloucester.  That  city  was  defended  by  the  inhabitants  and 
by  the  garrison,  with  a  determination  such  as  had  not,  since  the 
commencement  of  the  war,  been  shown  by  the  adherents  of  the 
Parliament.  The  emulation  of  London  was  excited.  The  train- 
bands of  the  City  volunteered  to  march  wherever  their  services 
might  be  required.  A  great  force  was  speedily  collected,  and 
began  to  move  westward.  The  siege  of  Gloucester  was  raised. 
The  Royalists  in  every  part  of  the  kingdom  were  disheartened  : 
the  spirit  of  the  parliamentary  party  revived ;  and  the  apostate 
Lords,  who  had  lately  fled  from  Westmmster  to  Oxford,  hastened 
back  from  Oxford  to  Westminster. 

And  now  a  new  and  alarming  class  of  symptoms  began  to  appear 
in  the  distempered  body  politic.  There  had  been,  from  the  first, 
in  the  parliamentary  party,  some  men  whose  minds  were  set  on 
objects  from  which  the  majority  of  that  party  would  have  shrunk 
with  horror.  These  men  were,  in  religion,  Lidependents.  They 
conceived  that  every  Christian  congregation  had,  under  Christ, 
supreme  jurisdiction  in  things  spiritual ;  that  appeals  to  provincial 
and  national  synods  were  scarcely  less  unscriptural  than  appeals 
to  the  Court  of  Arches,  or  to  the  Vatican  ;  and  that  Popery,  Prel- 
acy, and  Presbyterianism  were  merely  forms  of  one  great  apostasy. 
In  politics  the  Independents  were,  to  use  the  phrase  of  their  time, 
root  and  branch  men,  or,  to  use  the  kindred  phrase  of  our  own 
time,  radicals.  Not  content  with  limiting  the  power  of  the  mon- 
arch, they  were  desirous  to  erect  a  commonwealth  on  the  ruins 
of  the  old  English  polity.  At  first  they  had  been  inconsiderable, 
both  in  numbers  and  in  weight ;  but  before  the  war  had  lasted 
two  years  they  became,  not  indeed  the  largest,  but  the  most 
powerful  faction  in  the  country.  Some  of  the  old  parliamentary 
leaders  had  been  removed  by  death;  and  others  had  forfeited  the 
public  confidence.     Pym  had  been  borne,  with  princely  honours. 


THOMAS  BASING  TON  MACAULAY  1 79 

to  a  grave  among  the  Plantagenets.  Hampden  had  fallen,  as 
became  him,  while  vainly  endeavouring,  by  his  heroic  example,  to 
inspire  his  followers  with  courage  to  face  the  fiery  cavalry  of 
Rupert.  Bedford  had  been  untrue  to  the  cause.  Northumber- 
land was  known  to  be  lukewarm.  Essex  and  his  lieutenants  had 
shown  little  vigour  and  ability  in  the  conduct  of  military  operations. 
At  such  a  conjuncture  it  was  that  the  Independent  party,  ardent, 
resolute,  and  uncompromising,  began  to  raise  its  head,  both  in  the 
camp  and  in  the  House  of  Commons. 

The  soul  of  that  party  was  Oliver  Cromwell.  Bred  to  peaceful 
occupations,  he  had,  at  more  than  forty  years  of  age,  accepted  a 
commission  in  the  parliamentary  army.  No  sooner  had  he  become 
a  soldier  than  he  discerned,  with  the  keen  glance  of  genius,  what 
Essex  and  men  like  Essex,  with  all  their  experience,  were  unable 
to  perceive.  He  saw  precisely  where  the  strength  of  the  Royalists 
lay,  and  by  what  means  alone  that  strength  could  be  overpowered. 
He  saw  that  it  was  necessary  to  reconstruct  the  army  of  the 
Parliament.  He  saw  also  that  there  were  abundant  and  excel- 
lent materials  for  the  purpose,  materials  less  showy,  indeed,  but 
more  solid,  than  those  of  which  the  gallant  squadrons  of  the  King 
were  composed.  It  was  necessary  to  look  for  recruits  who  were 
not  mere  mercenaries,  for  recruits  of  decent  station  and  grave 
character,  fearing  God  and  zealous  for  public  liberty.  With  such 
men  he  filled  his  own  regiment,  and,  while  he  subjected  them  to 
a  discipline  more  rigid  than  had  ever  before  been  known  in  Eng- 
land, he  administered  to  their  intellectual  and  moral  nature  stimu- 
lants of  fearful  potency. 

The  events  of  the  year  1644  fully  proved  the  superiority  of  his 
abilities.  In  the  south,  where  Essex  held  the  commahd,  the 
parliamentary  forces  underwent  a  succession  of  shameful  disasters  ; 
but  in  the  north  the  victory  of  Marston  Moor  fully  compensated 
for  all  that  had  been  lost  elsewhere.  The  victory  was  not  a  more 
serious  blow  to  the  Royalists  than  to  the  party  which  had  hitherto 
been  dominant  at  Westminster ;  for  it  was  notorious  that  the  day, 
disgracefully  lost  by  the  Presbyterians,  had  been  retrieved  by  the 
energy  of  Cromwell,  and  by  the  steady  valour  of  the  warriors 
whom  he  had  trained. 

These  events  produced  the  Selfdenying  Ordinance  and  the  new 


l8o  THE    CIVIL    WAR 

model  of  the  army.  Under  decorous  pretexts,  and  with  every 
mark  of  respect,  Essex  and  most  of  those  who  had  held  high  posts 
under  him  were  removed ;  and  the  conduct  of  the  war  was 
intrusted  to  very  different  hands.  Fairfax,  a  brave  soldier,  but  of 
mean  understanding  and  irresolute  temper,  was  the  nominal  Lord 
General  of  the  forces ;  but  Cromwell  was  their  real  head. 

Cromwell  made  haste  to  organize  the  whole  army  on  the  same 
principles  on  which  he  had  organized  his  own  regiment.  As  soon 
as  this  process  was  complete,  the  event  of  the  war  was  decided. 
The  Cavaliers  had  now  to  encounter  natural  courage  equal  to  their 
own,  and  discipline  such  as  was  utterly  wanting  to  them.  It  soon 
became  a  proverb  that  the  soldiers  of  Fairfax  and  Cromwell  were 
men  of  a  different  breed  from  the  soldiers  of  Essex.  At  Naseby 
took  place  the  first  great  encounter  between  the  Royalists  and  the 
remodelled  army  of  the  Houses.  The  victory  of  the  Roundheads 
was  complete  and  decisive.  It  was  followed  by  other  triumphs 
in  rapid  succession.  In  a  few  months  the  authority  of  the  Parlia- 
ment was  fully  established  over  the  whole  kingdom.  Charles 
fled  to  the  Scots,  and  was  by  them,  in  a  manner  which  did  not 
much  exalt  their  national  character,  delivered  up  to  his  English 
subjects. 

While  the  event  of  the  war  was  still  doubtful,  the  Houses  had 
put  the  Primate  to  death,  had  interdicted,  within  the  sphere  of 
their  authority,  the  use  of  the  Liturgy,  and  had  required  all  men 
to  subscribe  that  renowned  instrument  known  by  the  name  of  the 
Solemn  League  and  Covenant.  When  the  struggle  was  over,  the 
work  of  innovation  and  revenge  was  pushed  on  with  still  greater 
ardour.  The  ecclesiastical  polity  of  the  kingdom  was  remodelled. 
Most  of  the  old  clergy  were  ejected  from  their  benefices.  Fines, 
often  of  ruinous  amount,  were  laid  on  the  Royalists,  already  im- 
poverished by  large  aids  furnished  to  the  King.  Many  estates 
were  confiscated.  Many  proscribed  Cavaliers  found  it  expedient 
to  purchase,  at  an  enormous  cost,  the  protection  of  eminent  mem- 
bers of  the  victorious  party.  Large  domains  belonging  to  the 
crown,  to  the  bishops,  and  to  the  chapters  were  seized,  and  either 
granted  away  or  put  up  to  auction.  In  consequence  of  these 
spoliations,  a  great  part  of  the  soil  of  England  was  at  once  offered 
for  sale.     As  money  was  scarce,  as  the  market  was  glutted,  as  the 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  i8l 

title  was  insecure,  and  as  the  awe  inspired  by  powerful  bidders 
prevented  free  competition,  the  prices  were  often  merely  nominal. 
Thus  many  old  and  honourable  families  disappeared  and  were 
heard  of  no  more  ;  and  many  new  men  rose  rapidly  to  affluence. 

But,  while  the  Houses  were  employing  their  authority  thus,  it 
suddenly  passed  out  of  their  hands.  It  had  been  obtained  by 
calling  into  existence  a  power  which  could  not  be  controlled.  In 
the  summer  of  1647,  about  twelve  months  after  the  last  fortress  of 
the  Cavaliers  had  submitted  to  the  Parliament,  the  Parhament  was 
compelled  to  submit  to  its  own  soldiers. 

Thirteen  years  followed,  during  which  England  was,  under 
various  names  and  forms,  really  governed  by  the  sword.  Never 
before  that  time,  or  since  that  time,  was  the  civil  power  in  our 
country  subjected  to  military  dictation. 

The  army  which  now  became  supreme  in  the  State  was  an  army 
very  different  from  any  that  has  since  been  seen  among  us.  At 
present  the  pay  of  the  common  soldier  is  not  such  as  to  seduce 
any  but  the  humblest  class  of  English  labourers  from  their  calling. 
A  barrier  almost  impassable  separates  him  from  the  commissioned 
officer.  The  great  majority  of  those  who  rise  high  in  the  service 
rise  by  purchase.  So  numerous  and  extensive  are  the  remote 
dependencies  of  England,  that  every  man  who  enlists  in  the  line 
must  expect  to  pass  many  years  in  exile,  and  some  years  in 
climates  unfavourable  to  the  health  and  vigour  of  the  European 
race.  The  army  of  the  Long  Parliament  was  raised  for  home 
service.  The  pay  of  the  private  soldier  was  much  above  the 
wages  earned  by  the  great  body  of  the  people  ;  and,  if  he  distin- 
guished himself  by  intelligence  and  courage,  he  might  hope  to 
attain  high  commands.  The  ranks  were  accordingly  composed  of 
persons  superior  in  station  and  education  to  the  multitude.  These 
persons,  sober,  moral,  diligent,  and  accustomed  to  reflect,  had 
been  induced  to  take  up  arms,  not  by  the  pressure  of  want,  not  by 
the  love  of  novelty  and  license,  not  by  the  arts  of  recruiting  offi- 
cers, but  by  religious  and  political  zeal,  mingled  with  the  desire  of 
distinction  and  promotion.  The  boast  of  the  soldiers,  as  we  find 
it  recorded  in  their  solemn  resolutions,  was,  that  they  had  not 
been  forced  into  the  service,  nor  had  enlisted  chiefly  for  the  sake 
of  lucre,  that  they  were  no  janissaries,  but  freeborn  Englishmen, 


1 82  THE    CIVIL    WAR 

who  had,  of  their  own  accord,  put  their  Uves  in  jeopardy  for  the 
Uberties  and  rehgion  of  England,  and  whose  right  and  duty  it  was 
to  watch  over  the  welfare  of  the  nation  which  they  had  saved. 

A  force  thus  composed  might,  without  injury  to  its  efficiency,  be 
indulged  in  some  liberties  which,  if  allowed  to  any  other  troops, 
would  have  proved  subversive  of  all  discipline.  In  general,  sol- 
diers who  should  form  themselves  into  political  clubs,  elect  dele- 
gates, and  pass  resolutions  on  high  questions  of  state,  would  soon 
break  loose  from  all  control,  would  cease  to  form  an  army,  and 
would  become  the  worst  and  most  dangerous  of  mobs.  Nor  would 
it  be  safe,  in  our  time,  to  tolerate  in  any  regiment  religious  meet- 
ings, at  which  a  corporal  versed  in  Scripture  should  lead  the  devo- 
tions of  his  less  gifted  colonel,  and  admonish  a  backsliding  major. 
But  such  was  the  intelligence,  the  gravity,  and  the  selfcommand 
of  the  warriors  whom  Cromwell  had  trained,  that  in  their  camp 
a  political  organization  and  a  religious  organization  could  exist 
without  destroying  military  organization.  The  same  men,  who, 
off  duty,  were  noted  as  demagogues  and  field  preachers,  were  dis- 
tinguished by  steadiness,  by  the  spirit  of  order,  and  by  prompt 
obedience  on  watch,  on  drill,  and  on  the  field  of  battle. 

In  war  this  strange  force  was  irresistible.  The  stubborn  courage 
characteristic  of  the  English  people  was,  by  the  system  of  Crom- 
well, at  once  regulated  and  stimulated.  Other  leaders  have  main- 
tained order  as  strict.  Other  leaders  have  inspired  their  followers 
with  zeal  as  ardent.  But  in  his  camp  alone  the  most  rigid  disci- 
pline was  found  in  company  with  the  fiercest  enthusiasm.  His 
troops  moved  to  victory  with  the  precision  of  machines,  while 
burning  with  the  wildest  fanaticism  of  Crusaders.  From  the  time 
when  the  army  was  remodelled  to  the  time  when  it  was  disbanded, 
it  never  found,  either  in  the  British  islands  or  on  the  Continent, 
an  enemy  who  could  stand  its  onset.  In  England,  Scotland,  Ire- 
land, Flanders,  the  Puritan  warriors,  often  surrounded  by  difficulties, 
sometimes  contending  against  threefold  odds,  not  only  never  failed 
to  conquer,  but  never  failed  to  destroy  and  break  in  pieces  what- 
ever force  was  opposed  to  them.  They  at  length  came  to  regard 
the  day  of  battle  as  a  day  of  certain  triumph,  and  marched  against 
the  most  renowned  battalions  of  Europe  with  disdainful  confidence. 
Turenne  was  startled  by  the  shout  of  stern  exultation  with  which 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAU  LAY  1 83 

his  English  allies  advanced  to  the  combat,  and  expressed  the 
delight  of  a  true  soldier,  when  he  learned  that  it  was  ever  the 
fashion  of  Cromwell's  pikemen  to  rejoice  greatly  when  they  beheld 
the  enemy  ;  and  the  banished  Cavaliers  felt  an  emotion  of  national 
pride,  when  they  saw  a  brigade  of  their  countrymen,  outnumbered 
by  foes  and  abandoned  by  allies,  drive  before  it  in  headlong  rout 
the  finest  infantry  of  Spain,  and  force  a  passage  into  a  counter- 
scarp which  had  just  been  pronounced  impregnable  by  the  ablest 
of  the  Marshals  of  France. 

But  that  which  chiefly  distinguished  the  army  of  Cromwell  from 
other  armies  was  the  austere  morality  and  the  fear  of  God  which 
pervaded  all  ranks.  It  is  acknowledged  by  the  most  zealous 
Royalists  that,  in  that  singular  camp,  no  oath  was  heard,  no 
drunkenness  or  gambling  was  seen,  and  that,  during  the  long 
dominion  of  the  soldiery,  the  property  of  the  peaceable  citizen 
and  the  honour  of  woman  were  held  sacred.  If  outrages  were 
committed,  they  were  outrages  of  a  very  different  kind  from  those 
of  which  a  victorious  army  is  generally  guilty.  No  servant  girl 
complained  of  the  rough  gallantry  of  the  redcoats.  Not  an  ounce 
of  plate  was  taken  from  the  shops  of  the  goldsmiths.  But  a  Pela- 
gian sermon,  or  a  window  on  which  the  Virgin  and  Child  were 
painted,  produced  in  the  Puritan  ranks  an  excitement  which  it 
required  the  utmost  exertions  of  the  officers  to  quell.  One  of 
Cromwell's  chief  difficulties  was  to  restrain  his  musketeers  and 
dragoons  from  invading  by  main  force  the  pulpits  of  ministers 
whose  discourses,  to  use  the  language  of  that  time,  were  not  sa- 
voury ;  and  too  many  of  our  cathedrals  still  bear  the  marks  of  the 
hatred  with  which  those  stern  spirits  regarded  every  vestige  of 
Popery. 

To  keep  down  the  English  people  was  no  light  task  even  for  that 
army.  No  sooner  was  the  first  pressure  of  military  tyranny  felt, 
than  the  nation,  unbroken  to  such  servitude,  began  to  struggle 
fiercely.  Insurrections  broke  out  even  in  those  counties  which, 
during  the  recent  war,  had  been  the  most  submissive  to  the  Parha- 
ment.  Indeed,  the  Parliament  itself  abhorred  its  old  defenders 
more  than  its  old  enemies,  and  was  desirous  to  come  to  terms  with 
Charles  at  the  expense  of  the  troops.  In  Scotland,  at  the  same 
time,  a  coalition  was  formed  between  the  Royalists  and  a  large  body 


1 84  THE    CIVIL    WAR 

of  Presbyterians  who  regarded  the  doctrines  of  the  Independents 
with  detestation.  At  length  the  storm  burst.  There  were  risings 
in  Norfolk,  Suffolk,  Essex,  Kent,  Wales.  The  fleet  in  the  Thames 
suddenly  hoisted  the  royal  colours,  stood  out  to  sea,  and  menaced 
the  southern  coast.  A  great  Scottish  force  crossed  the  frontier  and 
advanced  into  Lancashire,  It  might  well  be  suspected  that  these 
movements  were  contemplated  with  secret  complacency  by  a 
majority  both  of  the  Lords  and  of  the  Commons. 

But  the  yoke  of  the  army  was  not  to  be  shaken  off.  While 
Fairfax  suppressed  the  risings  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  capital, 
Oliver  routed  the  Welsh  insurgents,  and,  leaving  their  castles  in 
ruins,  marched  against  the  Scots.  His  troops  were  few,  when  com- 
pared with  the  invaders ;  but  he  was  little  in  the  habit  of  count- 
ing his  enemies.  The  Scottish  army  was  utterly  destroyed.  A 
change  in  the  Scottish  government  followed.  An  administration, 
hostile  to  the  King,  was  formed  at  Edinburgh ;  and  Cromwell, 
more  than  ever  the  darUng  of  his  soldiers,  returned  in  triumph  to 
London. 

And  now  a  design,  to  which,  at  the  commencement  of  the  civil 
war,  no  man  would  have  dared  to  allude,  and  which  was  not  less 
inconsistent  with  the  Solemn  League  and  Covenant  than  with  the 
old  law  of  England,  began  to  take  a  distinct  form.  The  austere 
warriors  who  ruled  the  nation  had,  during  some  months,  meditated 
a  fearful  vengeance  on  the  captive  King.  When  and  how  the 
scheme  originated ;  whether  it  spread  from  the  general  to  the 
ranks,  or  from  the  ranks  to  the  general ;  whether  it  is  to  be 
ascribed  to  policy  using  fanaticism  as  a  tool,  or  to  fanaticism  bearing 
down  policy  with  headlong  impulse,  are  questions  which,  even  at 
this  day,  cannot  be  answered  with  perfect  confidence.  It  seems, 
however,  on  the  whole,  probable  that  he  who  seemed  to  lead  was 
really  forced  to  follow,  and  that,  on  this  occasion,  as  on  another 
great  occasion  a  few  years  later,  he  sacrificed  his  own  judgment 
and  his  own  inclinations  to  the  wishes  of  the  army.  For  the 
power  which  he  had  called  into  existence  was  a  power  which  even 
he  could  not  always  control ;  and,  that  he  might  ordinarily  com- 
mand, it  was  necessary  that  he  should  sometimes  obey.  He 
publicly  protested  that  he  was  no  mover  in  the  matter,  that  the 
first  steps   had   been    taken  without    his   privity,  that   he  could 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  1 85 

not  advise  the  Parliament  to  strike  the  blow,  but  that  he  sub- 
mitted his  own  feelings  to  the  force  of  circumstances  which 
seemed  to  him  to  indicate  the  purposes  of  providence.  It  has 
been  the  fashion  to  consider  those  professions  as  instances  of  the 
hypocrisy  which  is  vulgarly  imputed  to  him.  But  even  those  who 
pronounce  him  a  hypocrite  will  scarcely  venture  to  call  him  a  fool. 
They  are  therefore  bound  to  show  that  he  had  some  purpose  to 
serve  by  secretly  stimulating  the  army  to  take  the  course  which 
he  did  not  venture  openly  to  recommend.  It  would  be  absurd  to 
suppose  that  he,  who  was  never  by  his  respectable  enemies  rep- 
resented as  wantonly  cruel  or  implacably  vindictive,  would  have 
taken  the  most  important  step  of  his  life  under  the  influence  of 
mere  malevolence.  He  was  far  too  wise  a  man  not  to  know, 
when  he  consented  to  shed  that  august  blood,  that  he  was  doing  a 
deed  which  was  inexpiable,  and  which  would  move  the  grief  and 
horror,  not  only  of  the  Royalists,  but  of  nine  tenths  of  those  who 
had  stood  by  the  Parliament.  Whatever  visions  may  have  deluded 
others,  he  was  assuredly  dreaming,  neither  of  a  republic  on  the 
antique  pattern,  nor  of  the  millennial  reign  of  the  saints.  If  he 
already  aspired  to  be  himself  the  founder  of  a  new  dynasty,  it  was 
plain  that  Charles  the  First  was  a  less  formidable  competitor  than 
Charles  the  Second  would  be.  At  the  moment  of  the  death  of 
Charles  the  First,  the  loyalty  of  every  Cavalier  would  be  trans- 
ferred, unimpaired,  to  Charles  the  Second.  Charles  the  First  was 
a  captive  ;  Charles  the  Second  would  be  at  liberty.  Charles  the 
First  was  an  object  of  suspicion  and  dislike  to  a  large  proportion 
of  those  who  yet  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  slaying  him  ;  Charles 
the  Second  would  excite  all  the  interest  which  belongs  to  distressed 
youth  and  innocence.  It  is  impossible  to  believe  that  considera- 
tions so  obvious,  and  so  important,  escaped  the  most  profound 
politician  of  that  age.  The  truth  is  that  Cromwell  had,  at  one 
time,  meant  to  mediate  between  the  throne  and  Parliament,  and 
to  reorganize  the  distracted  State  by  the  power  of  the  sword,  under 
the  sanction  of  the  royal  name.  In  this  design  he  persisted  till 
he  was  compelled  to  abandon  it  by  the  refractory  temper  of  the 
soldiers,  and  by  the  incurable  duplicity  of  the  King.  A  party  in 
the  camp  began  to  clamour  for  the  head  of  the  traitor,  who  was 
for  treating  with  Agag.     Conspiracies  were  formed.     Threats  of 


1 86  THE    CIVIL    WAR 

impeachment  were  loudly  uttered.  A  mutiny  broke  out,  which 
all  the  vigour  and  resolution  of  Oliver  could  hardly  quell.  And 
though,  by  a  judicious  mixture  of  severity  and  kindness,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  restoring  order,  he  saw  that  it  would  be  in  the  highest 
degree  difficult  and  perilous  to  contend  against  the  rage  of  warriors, 
who  regarded  the  fallen  tyrant  as  their  foe,  and  as  the  foe  of  their 
God. 

At  the  same  time  it  became  more  evident  than  ever  that  the 
King  could  not  be  trusted.  The  vices  of  Charles  had  grown  upon 
him.  They  were,  indeed,  vices  which  difficulties  and  perplexities 
generally  bring  out  in  the  strongest  light.  Cunning  is  the  natural 
defence  of  the  weak.  A  prince,  therefore,  who  is  habitually  a 
deceiver  when  at  the  height  of  power,  is  not  likely  to  learn  frank- 
ness in  the  midst  of  embarrassments  and  distresses.  Charles  was 
not  only  a  most  unscrupulous  but  a  most  unlucky  dissembler. 
There  never  was  a  politician  to  whom  so  many  frauds  and  false- 
hoods were  brought  home  by  undeniable  evidence.  He  publicly 
recognized  the  Houses  of  Westminster  as  a  legal  Parliament,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  made  a  private  minute  in  council,  declaring  the 
recognition  null.  He  publicly  disclaimed  all  thought  of  calling  in 
foreign  aid  against  his  people  :  he  privately  solicited  aid  from 
France,  from  Denmark,  and  from  Loraine.  He  publicly  denied 
that  he  employed  Papists  :  at  the  same  time  he  privately  sent  to 
his  generals  directions  to  employ  every  Papist  that  would  serve. 
He  publicly  took  the  sacrament  at  Oxford,  as  a  pledge  that  he 
never  would  even  connive  at  Popery  :  he  privately  assured  his  wife, 
that  he  intended  to  tolerate  Popery  in  England;  and  he  author- 
ised Lord  Glamorgan  to  promise  that  Popery  should  be  estab- 
lished in  Ireland.  Then  he  attempted  to  clear  himself  at  his 
agent's  expense.  Glamorgan  received,  in  the  royal  handwriting, 
reprimands  intended  to  be  read  by  others,  and  eulogies  which 
were  to  be  seen  only  by  himself.  To  such  an  extent,  indeed,  had 
insincerity  now  tainted  the  King's  whole  nature,  that  his  most 
devoted  friends  could  not  refrain  from  complaining  to  each  other, 
with  bitter  grief  and  shame,  of  his  crooked  ])olitics.  His  defeats, 
they  said,  gave  him  less  pain  than  his  intrigues.  Since  he  had 
been  a  prisoner,  there  was  no  section  of  the  victorious  party  which 
had  not  been  the  object  both  of  his  flatteries  and  of  his  machina- 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  1 87 

tions  :  but  never  was  he  more  unfortunate  than  when  he  attempted 
at  once  to  cajole  and  to  undermine  Cromwell. 

Cromwell  had  to  determine  whether  he  would  put  to  hazard  the 
attachment  of  his  party,  the  attachment  of  his  army,  his  own  great- 
ness, nay  his  own  life,  in  an  attempt,  which  would  probably  have 
been  vain,  to  save  a  prince  whom  no  engagement  could  bind. 
With  many  struggles  and  misgivings,  and  probably  not  without 
many  prayers,  the  decision  was  made.  Charles  was  left  to  his 
fate.  The  miHtary  saints  resolved  that,  in  defiance  of  the  old  laws 
of  the  realm,  and  of  the  almost  universal  sentiment  of  the  nation, 
the  King  should  expiate  his  crimes  with  his  blood.  He  for  a  time 
expected  a  death  like  that  of  his  unhappy  predecessors,  Edward 
the  Second  and  Richard  the  Second.  But  he  was  in  no  danger 
of  such  treason.  Those  who  had  him  in  their  gripe  were  not  mid- 
night stabbers.  What  they  did,  they  did  in  order  that  it  might 
be  a  spectacle  to  heaven  and  earth,  and  that  it  might  be  held  in 
everlasting  remembrance.  They  enjoyed  keenly  the  very  scandal 
which  they  gave.  That  the  ancient  constitution  and  the  public 
opinion  of  England  were  directly  opposed  to  regicide  made  regi- 
cide seem  strangely  fascinating  to  a  party  bent  on  effecting  a  com- 
plete political  and  social  revolution.  In  order  to  accomplish  their 
purpose,  it  was  necessary  that  they  should  first  break  in  pieces 
every  part  of  the  machinery  of  the  government ;  and  this  necessity 
was  rather  agreeable  than  painful  to  them.  The  Commons  passed 
a  vote  tending  to  accommodation  with  the  King.  The  soldiers 
excluded  the  majority  by  force.  The  Lords  unanimously  rejected 
the  proposition  that  the  King  should  be  brought  to  trial.  Their 
house  was  instantly  closed.  No  court,  known  to  the  law,  would 
take  on  itself  the  office  of  judging  the  fountain  of  justice.  A  revo- 
lutionary tribunal  was  created.  That  tribunal  pronounced  Charles 
a  tyrant,  a  traitor,  a  murderer,  and  a  public  enemy ;  and  his  head 
was  severed  from  his  shoulders  before  thousands  of  spectators,  in 
front  of  the  banqueting  hall  of  his  own  palace. 


1 88  BRADDOCK'S  DEFEAT 

BRADDOCK'S    DEFEAT 

FRANCIS    PARKMAN 

[From  chapter  4  of  The  Conspiracy  of  Poutiac  and  the  Indian  War  against 
the  English  Colonies  after  the  Conquest  of  Canada,  1851.] 

The  people  of  the  northern  EngHsh  colonies  had  learned  to 
regard  their  Canadian  neighbors  with  the  bitterest  enmity.  With 
them,  the  very  name  of  Canada  called  up  horrible  recollections 
and  ghastly  images  :  the  midnight  massacre  of  Schenectady,  and 
the  desolation  of  many  a  New  England  hamlet ;  blazing  dwellings 
and  reeking  scalps  ;  and  children  snatched  from  their  mothers' 
arms,  to  be  immured  in  convents  and  trained  up  in  the  abomina- 
tions of  Popery.  To  the  sons  of  the  Puritans,  their  enemy  was 
doubly  odious.  They  hated  him  as  a  Frenchman,  and  they  hated 
him  as  a  Papist.  Hitherto  he  had  waged  his  murderous  warfare 
from  a  distance,  wasting  their  settlements  with  rapid  onsets,  fierce 
and  transient  as  a  summer  storm  ;  but  now,  with  enterprising  audac- 
ity, he  was  intrenching  himself  on  their  very  borders.  The  Eng- 
lish hunter,  in  the  lonely  wilderness  of  Vermont,  as  by  the  warm 
glow  of  sunset  he  piled  the  spruce  boughs  for  his  woodland  bed, 
started  as  a  deep,  low  sound  struck  faintly  on  his  ear,  the  evening 
gun  of  Fort  Frederic,  booming  over  lake  and  forest.  The  erection 
of  this  fort,  better  known  among  the  English  as  Crown  Point,  was 
a  piece  of  daring  encroachment  which  justly  kindled  resentment  in 
the  northern  colonies.  But  it  was  not  here  that  the  immediate 
occasion  of  a  final  rupture  was  to  arise.  By  an  article  of  the  treaty 
of  Utrecht,  confirmed  by  that  of  Aix  la  Chapelle,  Acadia  had  been 
ceded  to  England  ;  but  scarcely  was  the  latter  treaty  signed,  when 
debates  sprang  up  touching  the  limits  of  the  ceded  province. 
Commissioners  were  named  on  either  side  to  adjust  the  disputed 
boundary ;  but  the  claims  of  the  rival  powers  proved  utterly  irrec- 
oncilable, and  all  negotiation  was  fruitless.  Meantime,  the  French 
and  English  forces  in  Acadia  began  to  assume  a  belligerent  atti- 
tude, and  indulge  their  ill  blood  in  mutual  aggression  and  reprisal. 
But  while  this  game  was  played  on  the  coasts  of  the  Atlantic, 
interests  of  far  greater  moment  were  at  stake  in  the  west. 


FRANCIS  PARKMAN  1 89 

The  people  of  the  middle  colonies,  placed  by  their  local  position 
beyond  reach  of  the  French,  had  heard  with  great  composure  of 
the  sufferings  of  their  New  England  brethren,  and  felt  little  con- 
cern at  a  danger  so  doubtful  and  remote.  There  were  those 
among  them,  however,  who,  with  greater  foresight,  had  been  quick 
to  perceive  the  ambitious  projects  of  the  French ;  and,  as  early 
as  1716,  Spotswood,  governor  of  Virginia,  had  urged  the  expe- 
diency of  securing  the  valley  of  the  Ohio  by  a  series  of  forts  and 
settlements.  His  proposal  was  coldly  hstened  to,  and  his  plan 
fell  to  the  ground.  The  time  at  length  was  come  when  the  danger 
was  approaching  too  near  to  be  slighted  longer.  In  1748,  an 
association,  called  the  Ohio  Company,  was  formed  with  the  view 
of  making  settlements  in  the  region  beyond  the  Alleghanies ;  and 
two  years  later,  Gist,  the  company's  surveyor,  to  the  great  disgust 
of  the  Indians,  carried  chain  and  compass  down  the  Ohio  as  far 
as  the  falls  at  Louisville.  But  so  dilatory  were  the  English,  that 
before  any  effectual  steps  were  taken,  their  agile  enemies  appeared 
upon  the  scene. 

In  the  spring  of  1753,  the  middle  provinces  were  startled  at 
the  tidings  that  French  troops  had  crossed  Lake  Erie,  fortified 
themselves  at  the  point  of  Presqu'-Isle,  and  pushed  forward  to 
the  northern  branches  of  the  Ohio.  Upon  this.  Governor  Din- 
widdle, of  Virginia,  resolved  to  despatch  a  message  requiring  their 
removal  from  territories  which  he  claimed  as  belonging  to  the 
British  crown ;  and  looking  about  him  for  the  person  best  quali- 
fied to  act  as  messenger,  he  made  choice  of  George  Washington, 
a  young  man  twenty- one  years  of  age,  adjutant  general  of  the 
Virginian  militia. 

Washington  departed  on  his  mission,  crossed  the  mountains, 
descended  to  the  bleak  and  leafless  valley  of  the  Ohio,  and  thence 
continued  his  journey  up  the  banks  of  the  Alleghany  until  the 
fourth  of  December.  On  that  day  he  reached  Venango,  an 
Indian  town  on  the  Alleghany,  at  the  mouth  of  French  Creek. 
Here  was  the  advanced  post  of  the  French ;  and  here,  among 
the  Indian  log-cabins  and  huts  of  bark,  he  saw  their  flag  flying 
above  the  house  of  an  English  trader,  whom  the  military  intruders 
had  unceremoniously  ejected.  They  gave  the  young  envoy  a 
hospitable  reception,  and  referred  him  to  the  commanding  officer, 


IQO  BRADDOCK'S  DEFEAT 

whose  headquarters  were  at  Le  Boeuf,  a  fort  which  they  had 
just  built  on  French  Creek,  some  distance  above  Venango. 
Thither  Washington  repaired,  and  on  his  arrival  was  received  with 
stately  courtesy  by  the  officer,  Legardeur  de  St.  Pierre,  whom- he 
describes  as  an  elderly  gentleman  of  very  soldier-like  appearance. 
To  the  message  of  Dinwiddle,  St.  Pierre  rephed  that  he  would 
forward  it  to  the  governor  general  of  Canada ;  but  that,  in  the 
mean  time,  his  orders  were  to  hold  possession  of  the  country,  and 
this  he  should  do  to  the  best  of  his  ability.  With  this  answer 
Washington,  through  all  the  rigors  of  the  midwinter  forest,  re- 
traced his  steps,  with  one  attendant,  to  the  English  borders. 

With  the  first  opening  of  spring,  a  newly  raised  company  of 
Virginian  backwoodsmen,  under  Captain  Trent,  hastened  across 
the  mountains,  and  began  to  build  a  fort  at  the  confluence  of  the 
Monongahela  and  Alleghany,  where  Pittsburg  now  stands ;  when 
suddenly  they  found  themselves  invested  by  a  host  of  French  and 
Indians,  who,  with  sixty  bateaux  and  three  hundred  canoes,  had 
descended  from  Le  Boeuf  and  Venango.  The  English  were 
ordered  to  evacuate  the  spot ;  and,  being  quite  unable  to  re- 
sist, they  obeyed  the  summons,  and  withdrew  in  great  discom- 
fiture towards  Virginia.  Meanwhile  Washington,  with  another 
party  of  backwoodsmen,  was  advancing  fron:i  the  borders ;  and 
hearing  of  Trent's  disaster,  he  resolved  to  fortify  himself  on  the 
Monongahela,  and  hold  his  ground,  if  possible,  until  fresh  troops 
could  arrive  to  support  him.  The  French  sent  out  a  scouting 
party  under  M.  Jumonville,  with  the  design,  probably,  of  watching 
his  movement ;  but,  on  a  dark  and  stormy  night,  Washington  sur- 
prised them,  as  they  lay  lurking  in  a  rocky  glen  not  far  from  his 
camp,  killed  the  officer,  and  captured  the  whole  detachment. 
Learning  that  the  French,  enraged  by  this  reverse,  were  about  to 
attack  him  in  great  force,  he  thought  it  prudent  to  fall  back,  and 
retired  accordingly  to  a  spot  called  the  Great  Meadows,  where 
he  had  before  thrown  up  a  slight  intrenchment.  Here  he  found 
himself  assailed  by  nine  hundred  French  and  Lidians,  commanded 
by  a  brother  of  the  slain  Jumonville.  From  eleven  in  the  morn- 
ing till  eight  at  night,  the  backwoodsmen,  who  were  half  famished 
from  the  failure  of  their  stores,  maintained  a  stubborn  defence, 
some  fighting  within  the  intrenchment,  and  some  on  the  plain 


FRANCIS  PARK  MAN  I9I 

without.  In  the  evening,  the  French  sounded  a  parley,  and 
offered  terms.  They  were  accepted,  and  on  the  following  day 
Washington  and  his  men  retired  across  the  mountains,  leaving 
the  disputed  territory  in  the  hands  of  the  French. 

While  the  rival  nations  were  beginning  to  quarrel  for  a  prize 
which  belonged  to  neither  of  them,  the  unhappy  Indians  saw,  with 
alarm  and  amazement,  their  lands  becoming  a  bone  of  contention 
between  rapacious  strangers.  The  first  appearance  of  the  French 
on  the  Ohio  excited  the  wildest  fears  in  the  tribes  of  that  quarter, 
among  whom  were  those  who,  disgusted  by  the  encroachments  of 
the  Pennsylvanians,  had  fled  to  these  remote  retreats  to  escape 
the  intrusions  of  the  white  men.  Scarcely  was  their  fancied 
asylum  gained,  when  they  saw  themselves  invaded  by  a  host  of 
armed  men  from  Canada.  Thus  placed  between  two  fires,  they 
knew  not  which  way  to  turn.  There  was  no  union  in  their  coun- 
sels, and  they  seemed  like  a  mob  of  bewildered  children.  Their 
native  jealousy  was  roused  to  its  utmost  pitch.  Many  of  them 
thought  that  the  two  white  nations  had  conspired  to  destroy  them, 
and  then  divide  their  lands.  "  You  and  the  French,"  said  one 
of  them,  a  few  years  afterwards,  to  an  English  emissary,  "  are  like 
the  two  edges  of  a  pair  of  shears,  and  we  are  the  cloth  which  is 
cut  to  pieces  between  them." 

The  French  labored  hard  to  conciliate  them,  plying  them  with 
gifts  and  flatteries,  and  proclaiming  themselves  their  champions 
against  the  English.  At  first,  these  arts  seemed  in  vain,  but  their 
effect  soon  began  to  declare  itself;  and  this  effect  was  greatly 
increased  by  a  singular  piece  of  infatuation  on  the  part  of  the 
proprietors  of  Pennsylvania.  During  the  summer  of  1754,  dele- 
gates of  the  several  provinces  met  at  Albany,  to  concert  measures 
of  defence  in  the  war  which  now  seemed  inevitable.  It  was  at 
this  meeting  that  the  memorable  plan  of  a  union  of  the  colonies  was 
brought  upon  the  carpet ;  a  plan,  the  fate  of  which  was  curious  and 
significant,  for  the  crown  rejected  it  as  giving  too  much  power  to 
the  people,  and  the  people  as  giving  too  much  power  to  the  crown. 
A  council  was  also  held  with  the  Iroquois,  and  though  they  were 
found  but  lukewarm  in  their  attachment  to  the  English,  a  treaty 
of  friendship  and  alliance  was  concluded  with  their  deputies.  It 
would  have  been  well  if  the  matter  had  ended  here  ;  but,  with  ill- 


192  BRADDOCK'S  DEFEAT 

timed  rapacity,  the  proprietary  agents  of  Pennsylvania  took  advan- 
tage of  this  great  assemblage  of  sachems  to  procure  from  them  the 
grant  of  extensive  tracts,  including  the  lands  inhabited  by  the  very 
tribes  whom  the  French  were  at  that  moment  striving  to  seduce. 
When  they  heard  that,  without  their  consent,  their  conquerors  and 
tyrants,  the  Iroquois,  had  sold  the  soil  from  beneath  their  feet, 
their  indignation  was  extreme ;  and,  convinced  that  there  was 
no  Umit  to  English  encroachment,  many  of  them  from  that  hour 
became  fast  aUies  of  the  French. 

The  courts  of  London  and  Versailles  still  maintained  a  diplo- 
matic  intercourse,  both   protesting  their  earnest  wish  that  their 
conflicting  claims  might  be  adjusted  by  friendly  negotiation  ;  but 
while  each  disclaimed  the  intention  of  hostihty,  both  were  hasten- 
ing to  prepare  for  war.     Early  in   1755,  an   English  fleet  sailed 
from  Cork,  having  on  board  two  regiments  destined  for  Virginia, 
and  commanded  by  General  Braddock ;  and  soon  after,  a  French 
fleet  put  to  sea  from  the  port  of  Brest,  freighted  with  munitions  of 
war  and  a  strong  body  of  troops  under  Baron  Dieskau,  an  officer 
who  had  distinguished  himself  in  the  campaigns  of  Marshal  Saxe. 
The  English  fleet  gained  its  destination,  and  landed  its  troops  in 
safety.     The  French  were  less  fortunate.     Two  of  their  ships,  the 
Lys  and  the  Alcide,  became  involved  in  the  fogs  of  the  banks  of 
Newfoundland  ;  and  when  the  weather  cleared,  they  four|d  them- 
selves under  the  guns  of  a  superior  British  force,  belonging  to  the 
squadron  of  Admiral  Boscawen,  sent  out  for  the  express  purpose 
of  intercepting  them.     "Are  we  at  peace  or  war?"  demanded 
the  French  commander.      A  broadside  from  the  Englishman  soon 
solved  his  doubts,  and  after  a  stout  resistance  the  French  struck 
their    colors.      News   of    the   capture    caused   great   excitement 
in  England,  but    the    conduct    of   the    aggressors  was)  generally 
approved ;   and  under  pretence  that  the  French  had  begun  the 
war  by  their  alleged  encroachments  in  America,  orders  were  issued 
for  a  general  attack  upon  their  marine.     So  successful  were  the 
British  cruisers,  that,  before  the  end  of  the  year,  three  hundred 
French  vessels,  and  nearly  eight  thousand  sailors,  were  captured 
and  brought  into  port.     The   French,  unable  to  retort  in  kind, 
raised  an  outcry  of  indignation,  and  Mirepoix,  their  ambassador, 
withdrew  from  the  court  of  London. 


FRANCIS  PARK  MAN  1 93 

■  Thus  began  that  memorable  war  which,  khidling  among  the 
forests  of  America,  scattered  its  fires  over  the  kingdoms  of  Europe, 
and  the  sultry  empire  of  the  Great  Mogul ;  the  war  made  glorious 
by  the  heroic  death  of  Wolfe,  the  victories  of  Frederic,  and  the 
marvellous  exploits  of  Clive  ;  the  war  which  controlled  the  destinies 
of  America,  and  was  first  in  the  chain  of  events  which  led  on  to  her 
Revolution,  with  all  its  vast  and  undeveloped  consequences.  On 
the  old  battle-ground  of  Europe,  the  struggle  bore  the  same  familiar 
features  of  violence  and  horror  which  had  marked  the  strife  of 
former  generations  —  fields  ploughed  by  the  cannon  ball,  and  walls 
shattered  by  the  exploding  mine,  sacked  towns  and  blazing  suburbs, 
the  lamentations  of  women,  and  the  license  of  a  maddened  soldiery. 
But  in  America,  war  assumed  a  new  and  striking  aspect.  A  wilder- 
ness was  its  sublime  arena.  Army  met  army  under  the  shadows 
of  primeval  woods  ;  their  cannon  resounded  over  wastes  unknown 
to  civilized  man.  And  before  the  hostile  powers  could  join  in 
batde,  endless  forests  must  be  traversed,  and  morasses  passed,  and 
every  where  the  axe  of  the  pioneer  must  hew  a  path  for  the  bayonet 
of  the  soldier. 

Before  the  declaration  of  war,  and  before  the  breaking  off  of 
negotiations  between  the  courts  of  France  and  England,  the  Eng- 
lish ministry  formed  the  plan  of  assailing  the  French  in  America 
on  all  sides  at  once,  and  repelling  them,  by  one  bold  push,  from 
all  their  encroachments.  A  provincial  army  was  to  advance  upon 
Acadia,  a  second  was  to  attack  Crown  Point,  and  a  third  Niagara ; 
while  the  two  regiments  which  had  lately  arrived  in  Virginia  under 
General  Braddock,  aided  by  a  strong  body  of  provincials,  were  to 
dislodge  the  French  from  their  newly-built  fort  of  Du  Quesne.  To 
Braddock  was  assigned  the  chief  command  of  all  the  British  forces 
in  America  ;  and  a  person  worse  fitted  for  the  office  could  scarcely 
have  been  found.  His  experience  had  been  ample,  and  none 
could  doubt  his  courage  ;  but  he  was  profligate,  arrogant,  perverse, 
and  a  bigot  to  military  rules.  On  his  first  arrival  in  Virginia,  he 
called  together  the  governors  of  the  several  provinces,  in  order  to 
explain  his  instructions  and  adjust  the  details  of  the  projected 
operations.  These  arrangements  complete,  Braddotk  advanced 
to  the  borders  of  Virginia,  and  formed  his  camp  at  Fort  Cumber- 
land where  he  spent  several  weeks  in  training  the  raw  backwoods- 
o 


1^4  BRADDOCK'S  DEFEAT 

men,  who  joined  him,  into  such  discipHne  as  they  seemed  capable 
of;  in  collecting  horses  and  wagons,  which  could  only  be  had  with 
the  utmost  difificulty ;  in  railing  at  the  contractors,  who  scanda- 
lously cheated  him  ;  and  in  venting  his  spleen  by  copious  abuse  of 
the  country  and  the  people.  All  at  length  was  ready,  and  early  in 
June,  1755,  the  army  left  civiUzation  behind,  and  struck  into  the 
broad  wilderness  as  a  squadron  puts  out  to  sea. 

It  was  no  easy  task  to  force  their  way  over  that  rugged  ground, 
covered  with  an  unbroken  growth  of  forest ;  and  the  difificulty  was 
increased  by  the  needless  load  of  baggage  which  encumbered  their 
march.  The  crash  of  falling  trees  resounded  in  the  front,  where 
a  hundred  axemen  labored,  with  ceaseless  toil,  to  hew  a  passage  for 
the  army.  The  horses  strained  their  utmost  strength  to  drag  the 
ponderous  wagons  over  roots  and  stumps,  through  gullies  and 
quagmires ;  and  the  regular  troops  were  daunted  by  the  depth 
and  gloom  of  the  forest  which  hedged  them  in  on  either  hand, 
and  closed  its  leafy  arches  above  their  heads.  So  tedious  was 
their  progress,  that,  by  the  advice  of  Washington,  twelve  hundred 
chosen  men  moved  on  in  advance  with  the  lighter  baggage  and 
artillery,  leaving  the  rest  of  the  army  to  follow,  by  slower  stages, 
with  the  heavy  wagons.  On  the  eighth  of  July  the  advanced  body 
reached  the  Monongahela,  at  a  point  not  far  distant  from  Fort  du 
Quesne.  The  rocky  and  impracticable  ground  on  the  eastern 
side  debarred  their  passage,  and  the  general  resolved  to  cross  the 
river  in  search  of  a  smoother  path,  and  recross  it  a  few  miles  lower 
down,  in  order  to  gain  the  fort.  The  first  passage  was  easily 
made,  and  the  troops  moved,  in  glittering  array,  down  the  western 
margin  of  the  water,  rejoicing  that  their  goal  was  well-nigh  reached, 
and  the  hour  of  their  expected  triumph  close  at  hand. 

Scouts  and  Indian  runners  had  brought  the  tidings  of  Braddock's 
approach  to  the  French  at  Fort  du  Quesne.  Their  dismay  was 
great,  and  Contrecoeur,  the  commander,  thought  only  of  retreat, 
when  Beaujeu,  a  captain  in  the  garrison,  made  the  bold  proposal 
of  leading  out  a  party  of  French  and  Indians  to  waylay  the  Eng- 
lish in  the  woods,  and  harass  or  interrupt  their  march.  The  offer 
was  accepted,  and  Beaujeu  hastened  to  the  Indian  camps. 

Around  the  fort  and  beneath  the  adjacent  forest  were  the  bark 
lodges  of  savage  hordes,  whom  the  French  had  mustered  from  far 


FRANCIS  PARK  MAN  1 95 

and  near :  Ojibvvas  and  Ottawas,  Hurons  and  Caughnawagas, 
Abenakis  and  Delawares.  Beaujeu  called  the  warriors  together, 
flung  a  hatchet  on  the  ground  before  them,  and  invited  them  to 
follow  him  out  to  battle  ;  but  the  boldest  stood  aghast  at  the  peril, 
and  none  would  accept  the  challenge.  A  second  interview  took 
place  with  no  better  success ;  but  the  Frenchman  was  resolved 
to  carry  his  point.  "  I  am  determined  to  go,"  he  exclaimed. 
"What,  will  you  suffer  your  father  to  go  alone?"  His  daring 
proved  contagious.  The  warriors  hesitated  no  longer ;  and  when, 
on  the  morning  of  the  ninth  of  July,  a  scout  ran  in  with  the  news 
that  the  Enghsh  army  was  but  a  few  miles  distant,  the  Indian 
camps  were  at  once  astir  with  the  turmoil  of  preparation.  Chiefs 
harangued  their  yelling  followers,  braves  bedaubed  themselves 
with  war-paint,  smeared  themselves  with  grease,  hung  feathers  in 
their  scalp-locks,  and  whooped  and  stamped  till  they  had  wrought 
themselves  into  a  delirium  of  valor. 

That  morning,  James  Smith,  an  English  prisoner  recently  cap- 
tured on  the  frontier  of  Pennsylvania,  stood  on  the  rampart,  and 
saw  the  half-frenzied  multitude  thronging  about  the  gateway, 
where  kegs  of  bullets  and  gunpowder  were  broken  open,  that  each 
might  help  himself  at  will.  Then  band  after  band  hastened  away 
towards  the  forest,  followed  and  supported  by  nearly  two  hundred 
and  fifty  French  and  Canadians,  commanded  by  Beaujeu.  There 
were  the  Ottawas,  led  on,  it  is  said,  by  the  remarkable  man  whose 
name  stands  on  the  title-page  of  this  history;  there  were  the 
Hurons  of  Lorette  under  their  chief,  whom  the  French  called 
Athanase,  and  many  more,  all  keen  as  hounds  on  the  scent  of 
blood.  At  about  nine  miles  from  the  fort,  they  reached  a  spot 
where  the  narrow  road  descended  to  the  river  through  deep  and 
gloomy  woods,  and  where  two  ravines,  concealed  by  trees  and 
bushes,  seemed  formed  by  nature  for  an  ambuscade.  Here  the 
warriors  ensconced  themselves,  and,  levelling  their  guns  over  the 
edge,  Lay  in  fierce  expectation,  listening  to  the  advancing  drums 
of  the  English  army. 

It  was  past  noon  of  a  day  brightened  with  the  clear  sunlight  of 
an  American  midsummer,  when  the  forces  of  Braddock  began,  for 
a  second  time,  to  cross  the  Monongahela,  at  the  fording-place, 
which  to  this  day  bears  the  name  of  their  ill-fated  leader.     The 


ig6  BRADDOCK'S  DEFEAT 

scarlet  columns  of  the  British  regulars,  complete  in  martial  ap- 
pointment, the  rude  backwoodsmen  with  shouldered  rifles,  the 
trains  of  artillery  and  the  white-topped  wagons,  moved  on  in  long 
procession  through  the  shallow  current,  and  slowly  mounted  the 
opposing  bank.  Men  were  there  whose  names  have  become  his- 
toric :  Gage,  who,  twenty  years  later,  saw  his  routed  battalions 
recoil  in  disorder  from  before  the  breastwork  on  Bunker  Hill ; 
Gates,  the  future  conqueror  of  Burgoyne  ;  and  one  destined  to  far 
loftier  fame,  George  Washington,  a  boy  in  years,  a  man  in  calm 
thought  and  self-ruling  wisdom. 

With  steady  and  well-ordered  march,  the  troops  advanced  into 
the  great  labyrinth  of  woods  which  shadowed  the  eastern  borders 
of  the  river.  Rank  after  rank  vanished  from  sight.  The  forest 
swallowed  them  up,  and  the  silence  of  the  wilderness  sank  down 
once  more  on  the  shores  and  waters  of  the  Monongahela. 

Several  guides  and  six  light  horsemen  led  the  way ;  a  body  of 
grenadiers  was  close  behind,  and  the  army  followed  in  such  order 
as  the  rough  ground  would  permit.  Their  road  was  tunnelled 
through  the  forest ;  yet,  deaf  alike  to  the  voice  of  common  sense 
and  to  the  counsel  of  his  officers,  Braddock  had  neglected  to  throw 
out  scouts  in  advance,  and  pressed  forward  in  blind  security  to 
meet  his  fate.  Leaving  behind  the  low  grounds  which  bordered 
on  the  river,  the  van  of  the  army  was  now  ascending  a  gently 
sloping  hill ;  and  here,  well  hidden  by  the  thick  standing  columns 
of  the  forest,  by  mouldering  prostrate  trunks,  by  matted  under- 
growth, by  long  rank  grasses,  lay,  on  either  flank,  the  two  fatal 
ravines  where  the  Indian  allies  of  the  French  were  crouched  in 
breathless  ambuscade.  No  man  saw  the  danger,  when  suddenly  a 
discordant  cry  arose  in  front,  and  a  murderous  fire  blazed  in  the  teeth 
of  the  astonished  grenadiers.  Instinctively,  as  it  were,  the  surviv- 
ors returned  the  volley,  and  returned  it  with  good  effect ;  for  a 
random  shot  struck  down  the  brave  Beaujeu,  and  the  courage 
of  the  assailants  was  staggered  by  his  fall.  Dumas,  second  in  com- 
mand, rallied  them  to  the  attack;  and  while  he,  with  the  French 
and  Canadians,  made  good  the  pass  in  front,  the  Indians  opened 
a  deadly  fire  on  the  right  and  left  of  the  British  columns.  In  a 
few  moments,  all  was  confusion.  The  advance  guard  fell  back 
on  the  main  body,  and  every  trace  of  subordination  vanished. 


FRANCIS  PARK  MAN  1 97 

The  fire  soon  extended  along  the  whole  length  of  the  army,  from 
front  to  rear.  Scarce  an  enemy  could  be  seen,  though  the  forest 
resounded  with  their  yells ;  though  every  bush  and  tree  was  alive 
with  incessant  flashes  ;  though  the  lead  flew  like  a  hailstorm, 
and  with  every  moment  the  men  went  down  by  scores.  The 
regular  troops  seemed  bereft  of  their  senses.  They  huddled  to- 
gether in  the  road  like  flocks  of  sheep ;  and  happy  did  he  think 
himself  who  could  wedge  his  way  into  the  midst  of  the  crowd,  and 
place  a  barrier  of  human  flesh  between  his  hfe  and  the  shot  of  the 
ambushed  marksmen.  Many  were  seen  eagerly  loading  their  mus- 
kets, and  then  firing  them  into  the  air,  or  shooting  their  own  com- 
rades, in  the  insanity  of  their  terror.  The  officers,  for  the  most  part, 
displayed  a  conspicuous  gallantry  ;  but  threats  and  commands  were 
wasted  alike  on  the  panic-stricken  multitude.  It  is  said  that  at 
the  onset  Braddock  showed  signs  of  fear ;  but  he  soon  recovered 
his  wonted  intrepidity.  Five  horses  were  shot  under  him,  and 
five  times  he  mounted  afresh.  He  stormed  and  shouted,  and, 
while  the  Virginians  were  fighting  to  good  purpose,  each  man  be- 
hind a  tree,  hke  the  Indians  themselves,  he  ordered  them  with 
furious  menace  to  form  in  platoons,  where  the  fire  of  the  enemy 
mowed  them  down  like  grass.  At  length,  a  mortal  shot  silenced 
him,  and  two  provincials  bore  him  off  the  field.  Washington  rode 
through  the  tumult  calm  and  undaunted.  Two  horses  were  kiUed 
under  him,  and  four  bullets  pierced  his  clothes  ;  but  his  hour  was 
not  come,  and  he  escaped  without  a  wound.  Gates  was  shot 
through  the  body,  and  Gage  also  was  severely  wounded.  Of  eighty- 
six  officers,  only  twenty-three  remained  unhurt ;  and  of  twelve 
hundred  soldiers  who  crossed  the  Monongahela,  more  than  seven 
hundred  were  kiUed  and  wounded.  None  suffered  more  severely 
than  the  Virginians,  who  had  displayed  throughout  a  degree  of 
courage  and  steadiness  which  put  the  cowardice  of  the  regulars  to 
shame.  The  havoc  among  them  was  terrible,  for  of  their  whole 
number  scarcely  one-fifth  left  the  field  alive. 

The  slaughter  lasted  three  hours  ;  when,  at  length,  the  survivors, 
as  if  impelled  by  a  general  impulse,  rushed  tumultuously  from  the 
place  of  carnage,  and  with  dastardly  precipitation  fled  across  the 
Monongahela.  The  enemy  did  not  pursue  beyond  the  river, 
flocking  back  to  the  field  to  collect  the  plunder^  and  gather  a  rich 


198  THE  STORMING   OF  THE  BASTILLE 

harvest  of  scalps.  The  routed  troops  pursued  their  flight  until 
they  met  the  rear  division  of  the  army,  under  Colonel  Dunbar  ; 
and  even  then  their  senseless  terrors  did  not  abate.  Dunbar's 
soldiers  caught  the  infection.  Cannon,  baggage,  provisions  and 
wagons  were  destroyed,  and  all  fled  together,  eager  to  escape 
from  the  shadows  of  those  awful  woods,  whose  horrors  haunted 
their  imagination.  They  passed  the  defenceless  settlements  of  the 
border,  and  hurried  on  to  Philadelphia,  leaving  the  unhappy  peo- 
ple to  defend  themselves  as  they  might  against  the  tomahawk  and 
scalping-knife. 

The  calamities  of  this  disgraceful  overthrow  did  not  cease  with  the 
loss  of  a  few  hundred  soldiers  on  the  field  of  battle  ;  for  it  entailed 
upon  the  provinces  all  the  miseries  of  an  Indian  war.  Those 
among  the  tribes  who  had  thus  far  stood  neutral,  wavering  between 
the  French  and  English,  now  hesitated  no  longer.  Many  of  them 
had  been  disgusted  by  the  contemptuous  behavior  of  Braddock. 
All  had  learned  to  despise  the  courage  of  the  English,  and  to 
regard  their  own  prowess  with  unbounded  complacency.  It  is 
not  in  Indian  nature  to  stand  quiet  in  the  midst  of  war;  and  the 
defeat  of  Braddock  was  a  signal  for  the  western  savages  to  snatch 
their  tomahawks  and  assail  the  English  settlements  with  one  accord  ; 
to  murder  and  pillage  with  ruthless  fury,  and  turn  the  whole  frontier 
of  Pennsylvania  and  Virginia  into  one  wide  scene  of  woe  and 
desolation. 


THE   STORMING   OF   THE    BASTILLE 

THOMAS   CARLYLE 
[From  chapter  6,  book  v,  of  The  French  Revolution  :  a  History,  1837.] 

In  any  case,  behold,  about  nine  in  the  morning,  our  National 
Volunteers  rolling  in  long  wide  flood  south-westward  to  the 
Hotel  des  Invalides  ;  in  search  of  the  one  thing  needful.  King's 
Procureur  M.  Ethys  de  Corny  and  officials  are  there  ;  the  Cur6 
of  Saint-Etienne  du  Mont  marches  unpacitic  at  the  head  of  his 
militant  Parish :  the  Clerks  of  the  Basoche  in  red  coats  we  see 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  1 99 

marching,  now  Volunteers  of  the  Basoche  ;  the  Volunteers  of  the 
Palais  Royal :  —  National  Volunteers,  numerable  by  tens  of  thou- 
sands ;  of  one  heart  and  mind.  The  King's  muskets  are  the 
Nation's  ;  think,  old  M.  de  Sombreuil,  how,  in  this  extremity, 
thou  wilt  refuse  them !  Old  M.  de  Sombreuil  would  fain  hold 
parley,  send  couriers ;  but  it  skills  not :  the  walls  are  scaled,  no 
Invalide  firing  a  shot ;  the  gates  must  be  flung  open.  Patriotism 
rushes  in,  tumultuous,  from  grunsel  up  to  ridge-tile,  through  all 
rooms  and  passages  ;  rummaging  distractedly  for  arms.  What 
cellar  or  what  cranny  can  escape  it  ?  The  arms  are  found  ;  all 
safe  there  ;  lying  packed  in  straw,  —  apparently  with  a  view  to 
being  burnt !  More  ravenous  than  famishing  lions  over  dead 
prey,  the  multitude,  with  clangour  and  vociferation,  pounces  on 
them  ;  struggling,  dashing,  clutching :  —  to  the  jamming-up,  to  the 
pressure,  fracture  and  probable  extinction  of  the  weaker  Patriot. 
And  so,  with  such  protracted  crash  of  deafening,  most  discordant 
Orchestra-music,  the  Scene  is  changed;  and  eight-and-twenty 
thousand  sufficient  firelocks  are  on  the  shoulders  of  as  many 
National  Guards,  lifted  thereby  out  of  darkness  into  fiery 
light. 

Let  Besenval  look  at  the  glitter  of  these  muskets,  as  they 
flash  by !  Gardes  Frangaises,  it  is  said,  have  cannon  levelled 
on  him  ;  ready  to  open,  if  need  were,  from  the  other  side  of  the 
River.  Motionless  sits  he;  "astonished,"  one  may  flatter  one- 
self, "  at  the  proud  bearing  i^fiere  contenance)  of  the  Parisians."  — 
And  now,  to  the  Bastille,  ye  intrepid  Parisians  1  There  grape- 
shot  still  threatens ;  thither  all  men's  thoughts  and  steps  are 
now  tending. 

Old  De  Launay,  as  we  hinted,  withdrew  "  into  his  interior  " 
soon  after  midnight  of  Sunday.  He  remains  there  ever  since, 
hampered,  as  all  military  gentlemen  now  are,  in  the  saddest 
conflict  of  uncertainties.  The  H6tel-de-Ville  "  invites  "  him  to 
admit  National  Soldiers,  which  is  a  soft  name  for  surrender- 
ing. On  the  other  hand,  His  Majesty's  orders  were  precise. 
His  garrison  is  but  eighty-two  old  Invalides,  reinforced  by 
thirty-two  young  Swiss ;  his  walls  indeed  are  nine  feet  thick, 
he  has  cannon  and  powder ;  but,  alas,  only  one  day's  pro- 
vision of  victuals.     The  city  too  is  French,  the  poor  garrison 


200  THE  STORMING    OF   THE  BASTILLE 

mostly  French.  Rigorous  old  De  Launay,  think  what  thou 
wilt  do  ! 

All  morning,  since  nine,  there  has  been  a  cry  everywhere :  To 
the  Bastille  !  Repeated  "  deputations  of  citizens  "  have  been 
here,  passionate  for  arms  ;  whom  De  Launay  has  got  dismissed 
by  soft  speeches  through  port-holes.  Towards  noon,  Elector 
Thuriot  de  la  Rosiere  gains  admittance  ;  finds  De  Launay  in- 
disposed for  surrender  ;  nay  disposed  for  blowing  up  the  place 
rather,  Thuriot  mounts  with  him  to  the  battlements ;  heaps  of 
paving-stones,  old  iron  and  missiles  lie  piled ;  cannon  all  duly 
levelled ;  in  every  embrasure  a  cannon,  —  only  drawn  back  a 
little !  But  outwards,  behold,  O  Thuriot,  how  the  multitude 
flows  on,  welling  through  every  street :  tocsin  furiously  pealing, 
all  drums  beating  the  generale :  the  Suburb  Saint-Antoine  rolling 
hitherward  wholly,  as  one  man  !  Such  vision  (spectral  yet  real) 
thou,  O  Thuriot,  as  from  thy  Mount  of  Vision,  beholdest  in  this 
moment :  prophetic  of  what  other  Phantasmagories  and  loud- 
gibbering  Spectral  Realities,  which  thou  yet  beholdest  not,  but 
shalt !  "  Que  voulez-vousV  said  De  Launay,  turning  pale  at 
the  sight,  with  an  air  of  reproach,  almost  of  menace.  "  Mon- 
sieur," said  Thuriot,  rising  into  the  moral-sublime,  "what  mean 
yoic  ?  Consider  if  I  could  not  precipitate  both  of  us  from  this 
height,"  —  say  only  a  hundred  feet,  exclusive  of  the  walled 
ditch !  Whereupon  De  Launay  fell  silent.  Thuriot  shows  him- 
self from  some  pinnacle,  to  comfort  the  multitude  becoming  sus- 
picious, fremescent :  then  descends  ;  departs  with  protests  ;  with 
warning  addressed  also  to  the  Invalides,  —  on  whom,  however,  it 
produces  but  a  mixed  indistinct  impression.  The  old  heads  are 
none  of  the  clearest ;  besides,  it  is  said,  De  Launay  has  been 
profuse  of  beverages  i^prodigue  des  boissons).  They  think,  they 
will  not  fire,  —  if  not  fired  on,  if  they  can  help  it ;  but  must,  on 
the  whole,  be  ruled  considerably  by  circumstances. 

Wo  to  thee,  De  Launay,  in  such  an  hour,  if  thou  canst  not, 
taking  some  one  firm  decision,  rule  circumstances!  Soft 
speeches  will  not  serve ;  hard  grapeshot  is  questionable ;  but 
ho't'ering  between  the  two  is  ////questionable.  Ever  wilder  swells 
the  tide  of  men;  their  infinite  hum  waxing  ever  louder,  into 
imprecations,  perhaps  into  crackle  of  stray  musketry,  —  which 


TBOMAS   CARLYLE  201 

.'atter,  on  walls  nine  feet  thick,  cannot  do  execution.  The  Outer 
Drawbridge  has  been  lowered  for  Thuriot ;  new  deputation  of  citi- 
zens (it  is  the  third,  and  noisiest  of  all)  penetrates  that  way  into 
the  Outer  Court :  soft  speeches  producing  no  clearance  of  these, 
De  Launay  gives  fire  ;  pulls  up  his  Drawbridge.  A  slight  splut- 
ter ;  —  which  has  kindled  the  too  combustible  chaos  ;  made  it  a 
roaring  fire-chaos  !  Bursts  forth  Insurrection,  at  sight  of  its  own 
blood  (for  there  were  deaths  by  that  sputter  of  fire),  into  endless 
rolling  explosion  of  musketry,  distraction,  execration ;  —  and 
over  head,  from  the  Fortress,  let  one  great  gun,  with  its  grape- 
shot,  go  booming,  to  show  what  we  could  do.  The  Bastille  is 
besieged  1 

On,  then,  all  Frenchmen,  that  have  hearts  in  your  bodies ! 
Roar  with  all  your  throats,  of  cartilage  and  metal,  ye  Sons  of 
Liberty ;  stir  spasmodically  whatsoever  of  utmost  faculty  is  in 
you,  soul,  body,  or  spirit ;  for  it  is  the  hour  !  Smite  thou,  Louis 
Tournay,  cartwright  of  the  Marais,  old-soldier  of  the  Regiment 
Dauphin^  ;  smite  at  that  Outer  Drawbridge  chain,  though  the 
fiery  hail  whistles  round  thee  1  Never,  over  nave  or  felloe,  did 
thy  axe  strike  such  a  stroke.  Down  with  it,  man ;  down  with 
it  to  Orcus :  let  the  whole  accursed  Edifice  sink  thither,  and 
Tyranny  be  swallowed  up  forever !  Mounted,  some  say,  on  the 
roof  of  the  guard-room,  some  "  on  bayonets  stuck  into  joints  of 
the  wall,"  Louis  Tournay  smites,  brave  Aubin  Bonnemere  (also 
an  old  soldier)  seconding  him  :  the  chain  yields,  breaks  ;  the 
huge  Drawbridge  slams  down,  thundering  {avec  fracas).  Glori- 
ous :  and  yet,  alas,  it  is  still  but  the  outworks.  The  Eight  grim 
Towers,  with  their  Invalide  musketry,  their  paving-stones  and 
cannon-mouths,  still  soar  aloft  intact ;  —  Ditch  yawning  impas- 
sable, stone-faced  ;  the  inner  Drawbridge  with  its  back  towards 
us  ;  the  Bastille  is  still  to  take  ! 

To  describe  this  Siege  of  the  Bastille  (thought  to  be  one  of 
the  most  important  in  History)  perhaps  transcends  the  talent  of 
mortals.  Could  one  but,  after  infinite  reading,  get  to  under- 
stand so  much  as  the  plan  of  the  building  !  But  there  is  open 
Esplanade,  at  the  end  of  the  Rue  Saint-Antoine  ;  there  are 
such  Fore-courts,  Cour  Avance,  Gourde  rOr?ne,  arched  Gate- 
way (where  Louis  Tournay  now  fights)  ;  then  new  drawbridges, 


202  THE  STORMING    OF  THE  BASTILLE 

dormant-bridges,  rampart-bastions,  and  the  grim  Eight  Towers  : 
a  labyrinthic  Mass,  high-frowning  there,  of  all  ages  from  twenty 
years  to  four  hundred  and  twenty  ;  —  beleaguered,  in  this  its  last 
hour,  as  we  said,  by  mere  Chaos  come  again  !  Ordnance  of  all 
calibres ;  throats  of  all  capacities  ;  men  of  all  plans,  every  man 
his  own  engineer :  seldom  since  the  war  of  Pygmies  and  Cranes 
was  there  seen  so  anomalous  a  thing.  Half-pay  Elie  is  home 
for  a  suit  of  regimentals  ;  no  one  would  heed  him  in  coloured 
clothes  :  half-pay  Hulin  is  haranguing  Gardes  Frangaises  in  the 
Place  de  Greve.  Frantic  Patriots  pick  up  the  grapeshots  ;  bear 
them,  still  hot  (or  seemingly  so),  to  the  H6tel-de-Ville  :  —  Paris, 
you  perceive,  is  to  be  burnt !  Flesselles  is  "  pale  to  the  very 
lips  ;  "  for  the  roar  of  the  multitude  grows  deep.  Paris  wholly 
has  got  to  the  acme  of  its  frenzy ;  whirled,  all  ways,  by  panic 
madness.  At  every  street-barricade,  there  whirls  simmering  a 
minor  whirlpool,  —  strengthening  the  barricade,  since  God 
knows  what  is  coming  ;  and  all  minor  whirlpools  play  distract- 
edly into  that  grand  Fire-Maelstrom  which  is  lashing  round  the 
Bastille. 

And  so  it  lashes  and  it  roars.  Cholat  the  wine-merchant  has 
become  an  impromptu  cannoneer.  See  Georget,  of  the  Marine 
Service,  fresh  from  Brest,  ply  the  King  of  Siam's  cannon.  Sin- 
gular (if  we  were  not  used  to  the  like) :  Georget  lay,  last  night, 
taking  his  ease  at  his  inn ;  the  King  of  Siam's  cannon  also  lay, 
knowing  nothing  of  him  for  a  hundred  years.  Yet  now,  at  the 
right  instant,  they  have  got  together,  and  discourse  eloquent 
music.  For,  hearing  what  was  toward,  Georget  sprang  from  the 
Brest  Diligence,  and  ran.  Gardes  Frangaises  also,  will  be  here, 
with  real  artillery  :  were  not  the  walls  so  thick  !  —  Upwards  from 
the  Esplanade,  horizontally  from  all  neighbouring  roofs  and 
windows,  flashes  one  irregular  deluge  of  musketry,  without  effect. 
The  Invalides  lie  flat,  firing  comparatively  at  their  ease  from 
behind  stone ;  hardly  through  portholes  show  the  tip  of  a  nose. 
We  fall,  shot ;  and  make  no  impression  ! 

Let  the  conflagration  rage ;  of  whatsoever  is  combustible  ! 
Guard-rooms  are  burnt,  Invalides  mess-rooms.  A  distracted 
"  Peruke-maker  with  two  fiery  torches  "  is  for  burning  "  the  salt- 
petres of  the  Arsenal;"  —  had  not  a  woman  run  screaming- 


THOMAS   CARLYLE  203 

had  not  a  Patriot,  with  some  tincture  of  Natural  Philosophy, 
instantly  struck  the  wind  out  of  him  (butt  of  musket  on  pit  of 
stomach),  over-turned  barrels,  and  stayed  the  devouring  element. 
A  young  beautiful  lady  seized  escaping  in  these  Outer  Courts, 
and  thought  falsely  to  be  De  Launay's  daughter,  shall  be  burnt 
in  De  Launay's  sight ;  she  lies  swooned  on  a  paillasse :  but 
again  a  Patriot,  it  is  brave  Aubin  Bonnemere,  the  old  soldier, 
dashes  in,  and  rescues  her.  Straw  is  burnt ;  three  cartloads  of  it, 
hauled  thither,  go  up  in  white  smoke  :  almost  to  the  choking  of 
Patriotism  itself ;  so  that  Elie  had,  with  singed  brows,  to  drag 
back  one  cart,  and  Reole  the  "  gigantic  haberdasher  "  another. 
Smoke  as  of  Tophet ;  confusion  as  of  Babel ;  noise  as  the  Crack 
of  Doom  ! 

Blood  flows  ;  the  aliment  of  new  madness.  The  wounded  are 
carried  into  houses  of  the  Rue  Cerisaie  ;  the  dying  leave  their 
last  mandate  not  to  yield  till  the  accursed  Stronghold  fall.  And 
yet,  alas,  how  fall  ?  The  walls  are  so  thick !  Deputations,  three 
in  number,  arrive  from  the  H6tel-de-Ville ;  Abb^  Fauchet  (who 
was  of  one)  can  say,  with  what  almost  superhuman  courage  of 
benevolence.  These  wave  their  Town-flag  in  the  arched  Gate- 
way; and  stand,  rolling  their  drum;  but  to  no  purpose.  In 
such  Crack  of  Doom,  De  Launay  cannot  hear  them,  dare  not 
believe  them :  they  return,  with  justified  rage,  the  whew  of  lead 
still  singing  in  their  ears.  What  to  do  ?  The  Firemen  are 
here,  squirting  with  their  fire-pumps  on  the  Invalides  cannon, 
to  wet  the  touch-holes ;  they  unfortunately  cannot  squirt  so 
high  ;  but  produce  only  clouds  of  spray.  Individuals  of  classi- 
cal knowledge  propose  catapults.  Santerre,  the  sonorous  Brewer 
of  the  Suburb  Saint-Antoine,  advises  rather  that  the  place  be 
fired  by  a  "  mixture  of  phosphorus  and  oil-of-turpentine  spouted 
up  through  forcing-pumps  :  "  O  Spinola-Santerre,  hast  thou  the 
mixture  ready  ?  Every  man  his  own  engineer !  And  still  the 
fire-deluge  abates  not ;  even  women  are  firing,  and  Turks  ;  at 
least  one  woman  (with  her  sweetheart),  and  one  Turk.  Gardes 
Frangaises  have  come  ;  real  cannon,  real  cannoneers.  Usher 
Maillard  is  busy  ;  half-pay  Elie,  half-pay  Hulin  rage  in  the  midst 
of  thousands. 

How  the  great  Bastille  Clock  ticks  (inaudible)  in  its  Inner 


204  THE  STORMING    OF   THE  BASTILLE 

Court  there,  at  its  ease,  hour  after  hour;  as  if  nothing  special, 
for  it  or  the  world,  were  passing !  It  tolled  One  when  the  firing 
began  ;  and  is  now  pointing  towards  Five,  and  still  the  firing 
slakes  not.  —  Far  down,  in  their  vaults,  the  seven  Prisoners 
hear  muffled  din  as  of  earthquakes ;  their  Turnkeys  answer 
vaguely. 

Wo  to  thee,  De  Launay,  with  thy  poor  hundred  Invalides  ! 
Broglie  is  distant,  and  his  ears  heavy :  Besenval  hears,  but  can 
send  no  help.  One  poor  troop  of  Hussars  has  crept,  reconnoi- 
tring, cautiously  along  the  Quais,  as  far  as  Pont  Neuf.  "  We 
are  come  to  join  you,"  said  the  Captain  ;  for  the  crowd  seems 
shoreless.  A  large-headed  dwarfish  individual,  of  smoke-bleared 
aspect,  shambles  forward,  opening  his  blue  lips,  for  there  is 
sense  in  him;  and  croaks:  "Alight  then,  and  give  up  your 
arms  !  "  The  Hussar-Captain  is  too  happy  to  be  escorted  to  the 
Barriers,  and  dismissed  on  parole.  Who  the  squat  individual 
was  ?  Men  answer,  It  is  M.  Marat,  author  of  the  excellent 
pacific  Avis  an  Feiiple !  Great  truly,  O  thou  remarkable  Dog- 
leech,  is  this  thy  day  of  emergence  and  new-birth  :  and  yet  this 
same  day  come  four  years  — !  —  But  let  the  curtains  of  the 
Future  hang. 

What  shall  De  Launay  do  ?  One  thing  only  De  Launay  could 
have  done  :  what  he  said  he  would  do.  Fancy  him  sitting,  from 
the  first,  with  lighted  taper,  within  arm's-length  of  the  Powder- 
Magazine ;  motionless,  like  old  Roman  Senator,  or  Bronze 
Lamp-holder  ;  coldly  apprising  Thuriot,  and  all  men,  by  a  slight 
motion  of  his  eye,  what  his  resolution  was  :  —  Harmless  he  sat 
there,  while  unharmed ;  but  the  King's  Fortress,  meanwhile, 
could,  might,  would,  or  should  in  no  wise  be  surrendered,  save 
to  the  King's  Messenger :  one  old  man's  life  is  worthless,  so  it 
be  lost  with  honour  ;  but  think,  ye  brawling  canaille,  how  will  it 
be  when  a  whole  Bastille  springs  skyward  !  —  In  such  statu- 
esque, taper-holding  attitude,  one  fancies  De  Launay  might  have 
left  Thuriot,  the  red  Clerks  of  the  Basoche,  Cure  of  Saint- 
Stephen,  and  all  the  tagrag-and-bobtail  of  the  world,  to  work 
their  will. 

And  yet,  withal,  he  could  not  do  it.  Hast  thou  considered 
how  each  man's  heart  is  so  tremulously  responsive  to  the  hearts 


THOMAS   CARLYLE  20$ 

of  all  men  ;  hast  thou  noted  how  omnipotent  is  the  very  sound 
of  many  men  ?  How  their  shriek  of  indignation  palsies  the 
strong  soul ;  their  howl  of  contumely  withers  with  unfelt  pangs  ? 
The  Ritter  Gluck  confessed  that  the  ground-tone  of  the  noblest 
passage,  in  one  of  his  noblest  Operas,  was  the  voice  of  the  Pop- 
ulace he  had  heard  at  Vienna,  crying  to  their  Kaiser :  Bread  ! 
Bread  !  Great  is  the  combined  voice  of  men  ;  the  utterance  of 
their  instincts,  which  are  truer  than  their  thoughts:  it  is  the 
greatest  a  man  encounters,  among  the  sounds  and  shadows 
which  make  up  this  World  of  Time.  He  who  can  resist  that, 
has  his  footing  somewhere  beyond  Time,  De  Launay  could  not 
do  it.  Distracted,  he  hovers  between  two ;  hopes  in  the  middle 
of  despair ;  surrenders  not  his  Fortress  ;  declares  that  he  will 
blow  it  up,  seizes  torches  to  blow  it  up,  and  does  not  blow  it. 
Unhappy  old  De  Launay,  it  is  the  death-agony  of  thy  Bastille 
and  thee  !  Jail,  Jailoring  and  Jailor,  all  three,  such  as  they  may 
have  been,  must  finish. 

For  four  hours  now  has  the  World-Bedlam  roared :  call  it  the 
World-Chiniffira,  blowing  fire  !  The  poor  Invalides  have  sunk 
under  their  battlements,  or  rise  only  with  reversed  muskets : 
they  have  made  a  Avhite  flag  of  napkins  ;  go  beating  the  chamade, 
or  seeming  to  beat,  for  one  can  hear  nothing.  The  very  Swiss 
at  the  Portcullis  look  weary  of  firing ;  disheartened  in  the  fire- 
deluge  :  a  porthole  at  the  drawbridge  is  opened,  as  by  one  that 
would  speak.  See  Huissier  Maillard,  the  shifty  man !  On  his 
plank,  swinging  over  the  abyss  of  that  stone  Ditch,  plank  resting 
on  parapet,  balanced  by  weight  of  Patriots,  —  he  hovers  peri- 
lous :  such  a  Dove  toward  such  an  Ark !  Deftly,  thou  shifty 
Usher :  one  man  already  fell ;  and  lies  smashed,  far  down  there, 
against  the  masonry !  Usher  Maillard  falls  not :  deftly,  unerr- 
ing, he  walks,  with  outspread  palm.  The  Swiss  holds  a  paper 
through  his  porthole  ;  the  shifty  Usher  snatches  it,  and  returns. 
Terms  of  surrender:  Pardon,  immunity  to  all!  Are  they  ac- 
cepted?— " /w/  d'officier,  On  the  word  of  an  officer,"  answers 
half-pay  Hulin,  —  or  half-pay  Elie,  for  men  do  not  agree  on  it, 
—  "they  are  !  "  Sinks  the  drawbridge,  —  Usher  Maillard  bolt- 
ing it  when  down  ;  rushes-in  the  living  deluge :  the  Bastille  is 
fallen  1      Vidoire  !  La  Bastille  est  prise  ! 


206  QUEEN  ELIZABETH 

QUEEN    ELIZABETH 

JOHN   RICHARD   GREEN 
[From  A  Short  History  of  the  English  People,  1874.] 

Never  had  the  fortunes  of  England  sunk  to  a  lower  ebb  than 
at  the  moment  when  Elizabeth  mounted  the  throne.  The  coun- 
try was  humiliated  by  defeat,  and  brought  to  the  verge  of  rebel- 
lion by  the  bloodshed  and  misgovernment  of  Mary's  reign.  The 
old  social  discontent,  trampled  down  for  a  time  by  the  horsemen 
of  Somerset,  remained  a  menace  to  public  order.  The  religious 
strife  had  passed  beyond  hope  of  reconciliation,  now  that  the 
reformers  were  parted  from  their  opponents  by  the  fires  of 
Smithfield  and  the  party  of  the  New  Learning  all  but  dissolved. 
The  more  earnest  Catholics  were  bound  helplessly  to  Rome. 
The  temper  of  the  Protestants,  burned  at  home  or  driven  into 
exile  abroad,  had  become  a  fiercer  thing,  and  the  Calvinistic 
refugees  were  pouring  back  from  Geneva  with  dreams  of  revolu- 
tionary change  in  Church  and  State.  England,  dragged  at  the 
heels  of  Philip  into  a  useless  and  ruinous  war,  was  left  without 
an  ally  save  Spain  ;  while  France,  mistress  of  Calais,  became 
mistress  of  the  Channel.  Not  only  was  Scotland  a  standing  dan- 
ger in  the  north,  through  the  French  marriage  of  its  queen  Mary 
Stuart,  and  its  consequent  bondage  to  French  policy  ;  but  Mary 
Stuart  and  her  husband  now  assumed  the  style  and  arms  of  Eng- 
lish sovereigns,  and  threatened  to  rouse  every  Catholic  through- 
out the  realm  against  Elizabeth's  title.  In  presence  of  this  host 
of  dangers  the  country  lay  helpless,  without  army  or  fleet,  or  the 
means  of  manning  one,  for  the  treasury,  already  drained  by  the 
waste  of  Edward's  reign,  had  been  utterly  exhausted  by  Mary's 
restoration  of  the  Church-lands  in  possession  of  the  Crown,  and 
by  the  cost  of  her  war  with  France. 

England's  one  hope  lay  in  the  character  of  her  queen.  Eliza- 
beth was  now  in  her  twenty-fifth  year.  Personally  she  had  more 
than  her  mother's  beauty ;  her  figure  was  commanding,  her  face 
long  but  queenly  and  intelligent,  her  eyes  quick  and  fine.  She 
had  grown  up  amidst  the  liberal  culture  of  Henry's  court  a  bold 


JOHN  RICHARD    GREEN  20/ 

horsewoman,  a  good  shot,  a  graceful  d ancer ,  a  skilled  musician ,  and 
an  accomplished  scholar.  She  studied  every  morning  the  Greek 
Testament,  and  followed  this  by  the  tragedies  of  Sophocles  or 
orations  of  Demosthenes,  and  could  "  rub  up  her  rusty  Greek  " 
at  need  to  bandy  pedantry  with  a  Vice-Chancellor.  But  she  was 
far  from  being  a  mere  pedant.  The  new  literature  which  was 
springing  up  around  her  found  constant  welcome  in  her  court. 
She  spoke  Italian  and  French  as  fluently  as  her  mother-tongue. 
She  was  familiar  with  Ariosto  and  Tasso.  Even  amidst  the 
affectation  and  love  of  anagrams  and  puerilities  which  sullied 
her  later  years,  she  listened  with  delight  to  the  Faery  Queen,  and 
found  a  smile  for  "  Master  Spenser  "  when  he  appeared  in  her 
presence.  Her  moral  temper  recalled  in  its  strange  contrasts 
the  mixed  blood  within  her  veins.  She  was  at  once  the  daughter 
of  Henry  and  of  Anne  Boleyn.  From  her  father  she  inherited 
her  frank  and  hearty  address,  her  love  of  popularity  and  of  free 
intercourse  with  the  people,  her  dauntless  courage  and  her  amaz- 
ing self-confidence.  Her  harsh,  manlike  voice,  her  impetuous 
will,  her  pride,  her  furious  outbursts  of  anger,  came  to  her  with 
her  Tudor  blood.  She  rated  great  nobles  as  if  they  were  school- 
boys ;  she  met  the  insolence  of  Essex  with  a  box  on  the  ear  ;  she 
would  break  now  and  then  into  the  gravest  deliberations  to  swear 
at  her  ministers  like  a  fishwife.  But  strangely  in  contrast  with 
the  violent  outlines  of  her  Tudor  temper  stood  the  sensuous,  self- 
indulgent  nature  she  derived  from  Anne  Boleyn.  Splendour  and 
pleasure  M'ere  with  Elizabeth  the  very  air  she  breathed.  Her 
delight  was  to  move  in  perpetual  progresses  from  castle  to  castle 
through  a  series  of  gorgeous  pageants,  fanciful  and  extravagant 
as  a  caliph's  dream.  She  loved  gaiety  and  laughter  and  wit. 
A  happy  retort,or  a  finished  compliment  never  failed  to  win  her 
favor.  She  hoarded  jewels.  Her  dresses  were  innumerable. 
Her  vanity  remained,  even  to  old  age,  the  vanity  of  a  coquette 
in  her  teens.  No  adulation  was  too  fulsome  for  her,  no  flattery 
of  her  beauty  too  gross.  "  To  see  her  was  heaven,"  Hatton 
told  her,  "  the  lack  of  her  was  hell."  She  would  play  with  her 
rings  that  her  courtiers  might  note  the  delicacy  of  her  hands  ; 
or  dance  a  coranto  that  the  French  ambassador,  hidden  dexter- 
ously behind  a  curtain,  might  report  her  sprightliness  to  his 


208  QUEEN  ELIZABETH 

master.  Her  levity,  her  frivolous  laughter,  her  unwomanly 
jests,  gave  color  to  a  thousand  scandals.  Her  character,  in 
fact,  like  her  portraits,  was  utterly  without  shade.  Of  womanly 
reserve  or  self-restraint  she  knew  nothing.  No  instinct  of 
delicacy  veiled  the  voluptuous  temper  which  had  broken  out 
in  the  romps  of  her  girlhood  and  showed  itself  almost  ostenta- 
tiously throughout  her  later  life.  Personal  beauty  in  a  man  was 
a  sure  passport  to  her  liking.  She  patted  handsome  young 
squires  on  the  neck  when  they  knelt  to  kiss  her  hand,  and 
fondled  her  "  sweet  Robin,"  Lord  Leicester,  in  the  face  of  the 
court. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  the  statesmen  whom  she  outwitted  held 
Elizabeth  almost  to  the  last  to  be  little  more  than  a  frivolous 
woman,  or  that  Philip  of  Spain  wondered  how  "  a  wanton  " 
could  hold  in  check  the  policy  of  the  Escurial.  But  the  Eliza- 
beth whom  they  saw  was  far  from  being  all  of  Elizabeth.  The 
wilfulness  of  Henry,  the  triviality  of  Anne  Boleyn,  played  over 
the  surface  of  a  nature  hard  as  steel,  a  temper  purely  intellec- 
tual, the  very  type  of  reason  untouched  by  imagination  or 
passion.  Luxurious  and  pleasure-loving  as  she  seemed,  Eliza- 
beth lived  simply  and  frugally,  and  she  worked  hard.  Her  vanity 
and  caprice  had  no  weight  whatever  with  her  in  state  affairs. 
The  coquette  of  the  presence-chamber  became  the  coolest 
and  hardest  of  politicians  at  the  council-board.  Fresh  from 
the  flattery  of  her  courtiers,  she  would  tolerate  no  flattery  in 
the  closet ;  she  was  herself  plain  and  downright  of  speech  with 
her  counsellors,  and  she  looked  for  a  corresponding  plain- 
ness of  speech  in  return.  If  any  trace  of  her  sex  lingered  in 
her  actual  statesmanship,  it  was  seen  in  the  simplicity  and 
tenacity  of  purpose  that  often  underlies  a  woman's  fluctuations 
of  feeling.  It  was  this  in  part  which  gave  her  her  marked  supe- 
riority over  the  statesmen  of  her  time.  No  nobler  group  of 
ministers  ever  gathered  round  a  council-board  than  those  who 
gathered  round  the  council-board  of  Elizabeth.  But  she  was 
the  instrument  of  none.  She  listened,  she  weighed,  she  used  or 
put  by  the  counsels  of  each  in  turn,  but  her  policy  as  a  whole 
was  her  own.  It  was  a  policy,  not  of  genius,  but  of  good  sense. 
Her  aims  were  simple  and  obvious :  to  preserve  her  throne,  to 


JOHN  RICHARD    GREEN  209 

keep  England  out  of  war,  to  restore  civil  and  religious  order. 
Something  of  womanly  caution  and  timidity  perhaps  backed 
the  passionless  indifference  with  which  she  set  aside  the  larger 
schemes  of  ambition  which  were  ever  opening  before  her  eyes. 
She  was  resolute  in  her  refusal  of  the  Low  Countries.  She 
rejected  with  a  laugh  the  offers  of  the  Protestants  to  make  her 
"head  of  the  religion"  and  "mistress  of  the  seas."  But  her 
amazing  success  in  the  end  sprang  mainly  from  this  wise  limita- 
tion of  her  aims.  She  had  a  finer  sense  than  any  of  her  coun- 
sellors of  her  real  resources  ;  she  knew  instinctively  how  far  she 
could  go,  and  what  she  could  do.  Her  cold,  critical  intellect 
was  never  swayed  by  enthusiasm  or  by  panic  either  to  exagger- 
ate or  to  under-estimate  her  risks  or  her  power. 

Of  political  wisdom  indeed  in  its  larger  and  more  generous 
sense  Elizabeth  had  little  or  none ;  but  her  political  tact  was 
unerring.  She  seldom  saw  her  course  at  a  glance,  but  she 
played  with  a  hundred  courses,  fitfully  and  discursively,  as  a 
musician  runs  his  fingers  over  the  key-board,  till  she  hit  sud- 
denly upon  the  right  one.  Her  nature  was  essentially  practical 
and  of  the  present.  She  distrusted  a  plan  in  fact  just  in  pro- 
portion to  its  speculative  range  or  its  outlook  into  the  future. 
Her  notion  of  statesmanship  lay  in  watching  how  things  turned 
out  around  her,  and  in  seizing  the  moment  for  making  the  best 
of  them.  A  policy  of  this  limited,  practical,  tentative  order  was 
not  only  best  suited  to  the  England  of  her  day,  to  its  small 
resources  and  the  transitional  character  of  its  religious  and 
political  belief,  but  it  was  one  eminently  suited  to  Elizabeth's 
peculiar  powers.  It  was  a  policy  of  detail,  and  in  details  her 
wonderful  readiness  and  ingenuity  found  scope  for  their  exer- 
cise. "  No  War,  my  Lords,"  the  Queen  used  to  cry  imperiously 
at  the  council-board,  "  No  War  !  "  but  her  hatred  of  war  sprang 
less  from  her  aversion  to  blood  or  to  expense,  real  as  was  her 
aversion  to  both,  than  from  the  fact  that  peace  left  the  field 
open  to  the  diplomatic  manoeuvres  and  intrigues  in  which  she 
excelled.  Her  delight  in  the  consciousness  of  her  ingenuity 
broke  out  in  a  thousand  puckish  freaks, — freaks  in  which  one 
can  hardly  see  any  purpose  beyond  the  purpose  of  sheer  mysti- 
fication.     She  revelled   in  "  bye-ways  "  and  "  crooked  ways." 


210  QUEEN  ELIZABETH 

She  played  with  grave  cabinets  as  a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse, 
and  with  much  of  the  same  feline  delight  in  the  mere  embarrass- 
ment of  her  victims.  When  she  was  weary  of  mystifying  foreign 
statesmen  she  turned  to  find  fresh  sport  in  mystifying  her  own 
ministers.  Had  Elizabeth  written  the  story  of  her  reign  she 
would  have  prided  herself,  not  on  the  triumph  of  England  or 
the  ruin  of  Spain,  but  on  the  skill  with  which  she  had  hood- 
winked and  outwitted  every  statesman  in  Europe  during  fifty 
years.  Nor  was  her  trickery  without  political  value.  Ignoble, 
inexpressibly  wearisome  as  the  Queen's  diplomacy  seems  to  us 
now,  tracing  it  as  we  do  through  a  thousand  despatches,  it  suc- 
ceeded in  its  main  end.  It  gained  time,  and  every  year  that 
was  gained  doubled  Elizabeth's  strength.  Nothing  is  more 
revolting  in  the  Queen,  but  nothing  is  more  characteristic,  than 
her  shameless  mendacity.  It  was  an  age  of  political  lying,  but 
in  the  profusion  and  recklessness  of  her  lies  Elizabeth  stood 
without  a  peer  in  Christendom.  A  falsehood  was  to  her  simply 
an  intellectual  means  of  meeting  a  difficulty ;  and  the  ease  with 
which  she  asserted  or  denied  whatever  suited  her  purpose  was 
only  equalled  by  the  cynical  indifference  with  which  she  met 
the  exposure  of  her  lies  as  soon  as  their  purpose  was  answered. 
The  same  purely  intellectual  view  of  things  showed  itself  in  the 
dexterous  use  she  made  of  her  very  faults.  Her  levity  carried 
her  gaily  over  moments  of  detection  and  embarrassment  where 
better  women  would  have  died  of  shame.  She  screened  her 
tentative  and  hesitating  statesmanship  under  the  natural  timid- 
ity and  vacillation  of  her  sex.  She  turned  her  very  luxury  and 
sports  to  good  account.  There  were  moments  of  grave  danger 
in  her  reign  when  the  country  remained  indifferent  to  its  perils, 
as  it  saw  the  Queen  give  her  days  to  hawking  and  hunting,  and 
her  nights  to  dancing  and  plays.  Her  vanity  and  affectation, 
her  womanly  fickleness  and  caprice,  all  had  their  part  in  the 
diplomatic  comedies  she  played  with  the  successive  candidates 
for  her  hand.  If  political  necessities  made  her  life  a  lonely  one, 
she  had  at  any  rate  the  satisfaction  of  averting  war  and  con- 
spiracies by  love  sonnets  and  romantic  interviews,  or  of  gaining 
a  year  of  tranquillity  by  the  dexterous  spinning  out  of  a  flirtation. 
As  we  track  Elizabeth  through  her  tortuous  mazes  of  lying 


JOHN  RICHARD   GREEN  211 

and  intrigue,  the  sense  of  her  greatness  is  ahuost  lost  in  a  sense 
of  contempt.  But  wrapped  as  they  were  in  a  cloud  of  mystery, 
the  aims  of  her  policy  were  throughout  temperate  and  simple, 
and  they  were  pursued  with  a  singular  tenacity.  The  sudden 
acts  of  energy  which  from  time  to  time  broke  her  habitual  hesi- 
tation proved  that  it  was  no  hesitation  of  weakness.  Elizabeth 
could  wait  and  finesse  ;  but  when  the  hour  was  come  she  could 
strike,  and  strike  hard.  Her  natural  temper  indeed  tended  to 
a  rash  self-confidence  rather  than  to  self-distrust.  She  had,  as 
strong  natures  always  have,  an  unbounded  confidence  in  her 
luck.  "  Her  Majesty  counts  much  on  Fortune,"  Walsingham 
wrote  bitterly  ;  "  I  wish  she  would  trust  more  in  Almighty  God." 
The  diplomatists  who  censured  at  one  moment  her  irresolution, 
her  delay,  her  changes  of  front,  censure  at  the  next  her  "  obsti- 
nacy," her  iron  will,  her  defiance  of  what  seemed  to  them  inevi- 
table ruin.  "  This  woman,"  Philip's  envoy  wrote  after  a  wasted 
remonstrance,  "this  woman  is  possessed  by  a  hundred  thousand 
devils."  To  her  own  subjects,  indeed,  who  knew  nothing  of  her 
manoeuvres  and  retreats,  of  her  "bye-ways"  and  "crooked 
ways,"  she  seemed  the  embodiment  of  dauntless  resolution. 
Brave  as  they  were,  the  men  who  swept  the  Spanish  Main  or 
glided  between  the  icebergs  of  Baffin's  Bay  never  doub};ed  that 
the  palm  of  bravery  lay  with  their  Queen.  Her  steadiness  and 
courage  in  the  pursuit  of  her  aims  was  equalled  by  the  wisdom 
with  which  she  chose  the  men  to  accomplish  them.  She  had  a 
quick  eye  for  merit  of  any  sort,  and  a  wonderful  power  of  enlist- 
ing its  whole  energy  in  her  service.  The  sagacity  which  chose 
Cecil  and  Walsingham  was  just  as  unerring  in  its  choice  of  the 
meanest  of  her  agents.  Her  success  indeed  in  securing  from 
the  beginning  of  her  reign  to  its  end,  with  the  single  exception 
of  Leicester,  precisely  the  right  men  for  the  work  she  set  them 
to  do,  sprang  in  great  measure  from  the  noblest  characteristic 
of  her  intellect.  If  in  loftiness  of  aim  her  temper  fell  below 
many  of  the  tempers  of  her  time,  in  the  breadth  of  its  range,  in 
the  universality  of  its  sympathy  it  stood  far  above  them  all. 
Elizabeth  could  talk  poetry  with  Spenser  and  philosophy  with 
Bruno  ;  she  could  discuss  Euphuism  with  Lyly,  and  enjoy  the 
chivalry  of  Essex;  she  could  turn  from  talk  of  the  last  fashions 


212  QUEEN  ELIZABETH 

to  pore  with  Cecil  over  despatches  and  treasury  books ;  she  could 
pass  from  tracking  traitors  with  Walsingham  to  settle  points  of 
doctrine  with  Parker,  or  to  calculate  with  Frobisher  the  chances 
of  a  north-west  passage  to  the  Indies.  The  versatility  and 
many-sidedness  of  her  mind  enabled  her  to  understand  every 
phase  of  the  intellectual  movement  of  her  day,  and  to  fix  by  a 
sort  of  instinct  on  its  higher  representatives.  But  the  greatness 
of  the  Queen  rests  above  all  on  her  power  over  her  people. 
We  have  had  grander  and  nobler  rulers,  but  none  so  popular  as 
Elizabeth.  The  passion  of  love,  of  loyalty,  of  admiration  which 
finds  its  most  perfect  expression  in  the  Faery  Queen,  throbbed 
as  intensely  through  the  veins  of  her  meanest  subjects.  To 
England,  during  her  reign  of  half  a  century,  she  was  a  virgin 
and  a  Protestant  Queen  ;  and  her  immorality,  her  absolute  want 
of  religious  enthusiasm,  failed  utterly  to  blur  the  brightness  of 
the  national  ideal.  Her  worst  acts  broke  fruitlessly  against  the 
general  devotion.  A  Puritan,  whose  hand  she  cut  off  in  a  freak 
of  tyrannous  resentment,  waved  his  hat  with  the  hand  that  was 
left,  and  shouted,  "  God  save  Queen  Elizabeth  !  "  Of  her  faults, 
indeed,  England  beyond  the  circle  of  her  court  knew  little  or 
nothing.  The  shiftings  of  her  diplomacy  were  never  seen  out- 
side the  royal  closet.  The  nation  at  large  could  only  judge  her 
foreign  policy  by  its  main  outlines,  by  its  temperance  and  good 
sense,  and  above  all  by  its  success.  But  every  Englishman  was 
able  to  judge  Elizabeth  in  her  rule  at  home,  in  her  love  of  peace, 
her  instinct  of  order,  the  firmness  and  moderation  of  her  gov- 
ernment, the  judicious  spirit  of  conciliation  and  compromise 
among  warring  factions  which  gave  the  country  an  unexampled 
tranquillity  at  a  time  when  almost  every  other  country  in  Europe 
was  torn  with  civil  war.  Every  sign  of  the  growing  prosperity, 
the  sight  of  London  as  it  became  the  mart  of  the  world,  of 
stately  mansions  as  they  rose  on  every  manor,  told,  and  justly 
told,  in  Elizabeth's  favour.  In  one  act  of  her  civil  administration 
she  showed  the  boldness  and  originality  of  a  great  ruler  ;  for 
the  opening  of  her  reign  saw  her  face  the  social  difficulty  which 
had  so  long  impeded  English  progress,  by  the  issue  of  a  commis- 
sion of  inquiry  which  ended  in  the  solution  of  the  problem  by 
the  system  of   poor-laws.     She  lent  a  ready   patronage  to  the 


JOHN  RICHARD    GREEN  213 

new  commerce  ;  she  considered  its  extension  and  protection  as 
a  part  of  public  policy,  and  her  statue  in  the  centre  of  the  Lon- 
don Exchange  was  a  tribute  on  the  part  of  the  merchant  class  to 
the  interest  with  which  she  watched  and  shared  personally  in  its 
enterprises.  Her  thrift  won  a  general  gratitude.  The  memo- 
ries of  the  Terror  and  of  the  Martyrs  threw  into  bright  relief 
the  aversion  from  bloodshed  which  was  conspicuous  in  her  ear- 
lier reign,  and  never  wholly  wanting  through  its  fiercer  close. 
Above  all  there  was  a  general  confidence  in  her  instinctive 
knowledge  of  the  national  temper.  Her  finger  was  always  on 
the  public  pulse.  She  knew  exactly  when  she  could  resist  the 
feeling  of  her  people,  and  when  she  must  give  way  before 
the  new  sentiment  of  freedom  which  her  policy  unconsciously 
fostered.  But  when  she  retreated,  her  defeat  had  all  the  grace 
of  victory ;  and  the  frankness  and  unreserve  of  her  surrender 
won  back  at  once  the  love  that  her  resistance  had  lost.  Her 
attitude  at  home  in  fact  was  that  of  a  woman  whose  pride  in  the 
well-being  of  her  subjects,  and  whose  longing  for  their  favour, 
was  the  one  warm  touch  in  the  coldness  of  her  natural  temper. 
If  Elizabeth  could  be  said  to  love  anything,  she  loved  England. 
"  Nothing,"  she  said  to  her  first  Parliament,  in  words  of  unwonted 
fire,  "  nothing,  no  worldly  thing  under  the  sun,  is  so  dear  to  me 
as  the  love  and  good-will  of  my  subjects."  And  the  love  and 
good-will  which  were  so  dear  to  her  she  fully  won. 

She  clung  perhaps  to  her  popularity  the  more  passionately 
that  it  hid  in  some  measure  from  her  the  terrible  loneliness  of 
her  life.  She  was  the  last  of  the  Tudors,  the  last  of  Henry's 
children ;  and  her  nearest  relatives  were  Mary  Stuart  and 
the  House  of  Suffolk,  one  the  avowed,  the  other  the  secret 
claimant  of  her  throne.  Among  her  mother's  kindred  she  found 
but  a  single  cousin.  Whatever  womanly  tenderness  she  had, 
wrapt  itself  around  Leicester ;  but  a  marriage  with  Leicester 
was  impossible,  and  every  other  union,  could  she  even  have 
bent  to  one,  was  denied  to  her  by  the  political  difficulties  of  her 
position.  The  one  cry  of  bitterness  which  burst  from  Elizabeth 
revealed  her  terrible  sense  of  the  solitude  of  her  life.  "  The 
Queen  of  Scots,"  she  cried  at  the  birth  of  James,  "  has  a  fair 
son,  and  I  am  but  a  barren  stock."     But  the  loneliness  of  her 


214  QUEEN  ELIZABETH 

position  only  reflected  the  loneliness  of  her  nature.  She  stood 
utterly  apart  from  the  world  around  her,  sometimes  above  it, 
sometimes  below  it,  but  never  of  it.  It  was  only  on  its  intellec- 
tual side  that  Elizabeth  touched  the  England  of  her  day.  All 
its  moral  aspects  were  simply  dead  to  her.  It  was  a  time  when 
men  were  being  lifted  into  nobleness  by  the  new  moral  energy 
which  seemed  suddenly  to  pulse  through  the  whole  people, 
when  honour  and  enthusiasm  took  colours  of  poetic  beauty,  and 
religion  became  a  chivalry.  But  the  finer  sentiments  of  the 
men  around  her  touched  Elizabeth  simply  as  the  fair  tints  of  a 
picture  would  have  touched  her.  She  made  her  market  with 
equal  indifference  out  of  the  heroism  of  William  of  Orange  or 
the  bigotry  of  Philip.  The  noblest  aims  and  lives  were  only 
counters  on  her  board.  She  was  the  one  soul  in  her  realm 
whom  the  news  of  St.  Bartholomew  stirred  to  no  thirst  for  ven- 
geance ;  and  while  England  was  thrilling  with  its  triumph  over 
the  Armada,  its  Queen  was  coolly  grumbling  over  the  cost,  and 
making  her  profit  out  of  the  spoiled  provisions  she  had  ordered 
for  the  fleet  that  saved  her.  To  the  voice  of  gratitude,  indeed, 
she  was  for  the  most  part  deaf.  She  accepted  services  such  as 
were  never  rendered  to  any  other  English  sovereign  without  a 
thought  of  return.  Walsingham  spent  his  fortune  in  saving  her 
life  and  her  throne,  and  she  left  him  to  die  a  beggar.  But,  as 
if  by  a  strange  irony,  it  was  to  this  very  want  of  sympathy  that 
she  owed  some  of  the  grander  features  of  her  character.  If  she 
was  without  love,  she  was  without  hate.  She  cherished  no 
petty  resentments  ;  she  never  stooped  to  envy  or  suspicion  of 
the  men  who  served  her.  She  was  indifferent  to  abuse.  Her 
good  humor  was  never  ruffled  by  the  charges  of  wantonness  and 
cruelty  with  which  the  Jesuits  filled  every  court  in  Europe.  She 
was  insensible  to  fear.  Her  life  became  at  last  the  mark  for 
assassin  after  assassin,  but  the  thought  of  peril  was  the  one 
hardest  to  bring  home  to  her.  Even  when  the  Catholic  plots 
broke  out  in  her  very  household  she  would  listen  to  no  proposals 
for  the  removal  of  Catholics  from  her  court. 


-    -  JAMES  BRYCE  21 5 

NATIONAL    CHARACTERISTICS    AS 
MOULDING  PUBLIC  OPINION 

JAMES  BRYCE 
[Chapter  80  of  The  Anierican  Comtnotwealth,  1894.] 

As  the  public  opinion  of  a  people  is  even  more  directly  than 
its  political  institutions  the  reflection  and  expression  of  its  charac- 
ter, we  may  begin  the  analysis  of  opinion  in  America  by  noting 
some  of  those  general  features  of  national  character  which  give 
tone  and  colour  to  the  people's  thoughts  and  feelings  on  politics. 
There  are,  of  course,  varieties  proper  to  different  classes,  and  to 
different  parts  of  the  vast  territory  of  the  Union  ;  but  it  is  well  to 
consider  first  such  characteristics  as  belong  to  the  nation  as  a 
whole,  and  afterwards  to  examine  the  various  classes  and  districts 
of  the  country.  And  when  I  speak  of  the  nation,  I  mean  the 
native  Americans.  What  follows  is  not  applicable  to  the  recent 
immigrants  from  Europe,  and,  of  course,  even  less  applicable  to 
the  Southern  negroes ;  though  both  these  elements  are  potent  by 
their  votes. 

The  Americans  are  a  good-natured  people,  kindly,  helpful  to 
one  another,  disposed  to  take  a  charitable  view  even  of  wrong- 
doers. Their  anger  sometimes  flames  up,  but  the  fire  is  soon 
extinct.  Nowhere  is  cruelty  more  abhorred.  Even  a  mob 
lynching  a  horse  thief  in  the  West  has  consideration  for  the 
criminal,  and  will  give  him  a  good  drink  of  whisky  before  he  is 
strung  up.  Cruelty  to  slaves  was  unusual  while  slavery  lasted, 
the  best  proof  of  which  is  the  quietness  of  the  slaves  during  the 
war  when  all  the  men  and  many  of  the  boys  of  the  South  were 
serving  in  the  Confederate  armies.  As  everybody  knows,  juries 
are  more  lenient  to  offences  of  all  kinds  but  one,  offences  against 
women,  than  they  are  anywhere  in  Europe.  The  Southern 
"  rebels "  were  soon  forgiven ;  and  though  civil  wars  are  pro- 
verbially bitter,  there  have  been  few  struggles  in  which  _the 
combatants  did  so  many  little  friendly  acts  for  one  another, 
few  in  which  even  the  vanquished  have  so  quickly  buried  their 


2l6  NATIONAL    CHARACTERISTICS 

resentments.  It  is  true  that  newspapers  and  public  speakers 
say  hard  things  of  their  opponents ;  but  this  is  a  part  of  the 
game,  and  is  besides  a  way  of  reUeving  their  feelings  :  the  bark 
is  sometimes  the  louder  in  order  that  a  bite  may  not  follow. 
Vindictiveness  shown  by  a  public  man  excites  general  dis- 
approval, and  the  maxim  of  letting  bygones  be  bygones  is 
pushed  so  far  that  an  offender's  misdeeds  are  often  forgotten 
when  they  ought  to  be  remembered  against  him. 

All  the  world  knows  that  they  are  a  humorous  people.  They 
are  as  conspicuously  the  purveyors  of  humour  to  the  nineteenth 
century  as  the  French  were  the  purveyors  of  wit  to  the  eighteenth. 
Nor  is  this  sense  of  the  ludicrous  side  of  things  confined  to  a  few 
brilliant  writers.  It  is  diffused  among  the  whole  people ;  it 
colours  their  ordinary  life,  and  gives  to  their  talk  that  distinctively 
new  flavour  which  a  European  palate  enjoys.  Their  capacity  for 
enjoying  a  joke  against  themselves  was  oddly  illustrated  at  the 
outset  of  the  Civil  War,  a  time  of  stern  excitement,  by  the  merri- 
ment which  arose  over  the  hasty  retreat  of  the  Federal  troops  at 
the  battle  of  Bull  Run.  When  William  M.  Tweed  was  ruling  and 
robbing  New  York,  and  had  set  on  the  bench  men  who  were 
openly  prostituting  justice,  the  citizens  found  the  situation  so 
amusing  that  they  almost  forgot  to  be  angry.  Much  of  President 
Lincoln's  popularity,  and  much  also  of  the  gift  he  showed  for 
restoring  confidence  to  the  North  at  the  darkest  moments  of  the 
war,  was  due  to  the  humorous  way  he  used  to  turn  things,  convey- 
ing the  impression  of  not  being  himself  uneasy,  even  when  he  was 
most  so. 

That  indulgent  view  of  mankind  which  I  have  already  mentioned, 
a  view  odd  in  a  people  whose  ancestors  were  penetrated  with  the 
belief  in  original  sin,  is  strengthened  by  this  wish  to  get  amuse- 
ment out  of  everything.  The  want  of  seriousness  which  it  pro- 
duces may  be  more  apparent  than  real.  Yet  it  has  its  signifi- 
cance ;  for  people  become  affected  by  the  language  they  use,  as 
we  see  men  grow  into  cynics  when  they  have  acquired  the  habit 
of  talking  cynicism  for  the  sake  of  effect. 

They  are  a  hopeful  people.  Whether  or  no  they  are  right  in 
calling  themselves  a  new  people,  they  certainly  seem  to  feel  in 
their  veins  the  bounding  pulse  of  youth.     They  see  a  long  vista 


JAMES  BRYCE  21/ 

of  years  stretching  out  before  them,  in  which  they  will  have  time 
enough  to  cure  all  their  faults,  to  overcome  all  the  obstacles  that 
block  their  path.  They  look  at  their  enormous  territory  with  its 
still  only  half-explored  sources  of  wealth,  they  reckon  up  the 
growth  of  their  population  and  their  products,  they  contrast  the 
comfort  and  intelligence  of  their  labouring  classes  with  the  con- 
dition of  the  masses  in  the  Old  World.  They  remember  the 
dangers  that  so  long  threatened  the  Union  from  the  slave  power, 
and  the  rebellion  it  raised,  and  see  peace  and  harmony  now 
restored,  the  South  more  prosperous  and  contented  than  at  any 
previous  epoch,  perfect  good  feehng  between  all  sections  of  the 
country.  It  is  natural  for  them  to  believe  in  their  star.  And  this 
sanguine  temper  makes  them  tolerant  of  evils  which  they  regard 
as  transitory,  removable  as  soon  as  time  can  be  found  to  root 
them  up. 

They  have  unbounded  faith  in  what  they  call  the  People  and 
in  a  democratic  system  of  government.  The  great  States  of  the 
European  continent  are  distracted  by  the  contests  of  Republicans 
and  Monarchists,  and  of  rich  and  poor,  —  contests  which  go  down 
to  the  foundations  of  government,  and  in  France  are  further  em- 
bittered by  religious  passions.  Even  in  England  the  ancient 
Constitution  is  always  under  repair,  and  while  many  think  it  is 
being  ruined  by  changes,  others  hold  that  still  greater  changes  are 
needed  to  make  it  tolerable.  No  such  questions  trouble  native 
American  minds,  for  nearly  everybody  believes,  and  everybody 
declares,  that  the  frame  of  government  is  in  its  main  lines  so 
excellent  that  such  reforms  as  seem  called  for  need  not  touch  those 
lines,  but  are  required  only  to  protect  the  Constitution  from  being 
perverted  by  the  parties.  Hence  a  further  confidence  that  the 
people  are  sure  to  decide  right  in  the  long  run,  a  confidence 
inevitable  and  essential  in  a  government  which  refers  every  ques- 
tion to  the  arbitrament  of  numbers.  There  have,  of  course,  been 
instances  where  the  once  insignificant  minority  proved  to  have 
been  wiser  than  the  majority  of  the  moment.  Such  was  eminently 
the  case  in  the  great  slavery  struggle.  But  here  the  minority  pre- 
vailed by  growing  into  a  majority  as  events  developed  the  real 
issues,  so  that  this  also  has  been  deemed  a  ground  for  holding 
that  all  minorities  which  have  right  on  their  side  will  bring  round 


2l8  NATIONAL    CHARACTERISTICS 

their  antagonists,  and  in  the  long  run  win  by  voting  power.  If 
you  ask  an  intelligent  citizen  why  he  so  holds,  he  will  answer  that 
truth  and  justice  are  sure  to  make  their  way  into  the  minds  and 
consciences  of  the  majority.  This  is  deemed  an  axiom,  and  the 
more  readily  so  deemed,  because  truth  is  identified  with  common 
sense,  the  quality  which  the  average  citizen  is  most  confidently 
proud  of  possessing. 

This  feeUng  shades  off  into  another,  externally  like  it,  but  at 
bottom  distinct  —  the  feeling  not  only  that  the  majority,  be  it 
right  or  wrong,  will  and  must  prevail,  but  that  its  being  the  major- 
ity proves  it  to  be  right.  This  idea,  which  appears  in  the  guise 
sometimes  of  piety  and  sometimes  of  fatalism,  seems  to  be  no 
contemptible  factor  in  the  present  character  of  the  people.  It 
will  be  more  fully  dealt  with  in  a  later  chapter. 

The  Americans  are  an  educated  people,  compared  with  the 
whole  mass  of  the  population  in  any  European  country  except 
Switzerland,  parts  of  Germany,  Norway,  Iceland,  and  Scotland ; 
that  is  to  say,  the  average  of  knowledge  is  higher,  the  habit  of 
reading  and  thinking  more  generally  diffused,  than  in  any  other 
country.  (I  speak,  of  course,  of  the  native  Americans,  excluding 
negroes  and  recent  immigrants.)  They  know  the  Constitution  of 
their  own  country,  they  follow  public  affairs,  they  join  in  local  gov- 
ernment and  learn  from  it  how  government  must  be  carried  on, 
and  in  particular  how  discussion  must  be  conducted  in  meetings, 
and  its  results  tested  at  elections.  The  Town  Meeting  has  been 
the  most  perfect  school  of  self-government  in  any  modern  country. 
In  villages,  they  still  exercise  their  minds  on  theological  questions, 
debating  points  of  Christian  doctrine  with  no  small  acuteness. 
Women  in  particular,  though  their  chief  reading  is  fiction  and 
theology,  pick  up  at  the  public  schools  and  from  the  popular 
magazines  far  more  miscellaneous  information  than  the  women 
of  any  European  country  possess,  and  this  naturally  tells  on  the 
intelligence  of  the  men. 

That  the  education  of  the  masses  is  nevertheless  a  superficial 
education  goes  without  saying.  It  is  sufficient  to  enable  them  to 
think  they  know  something  about  the  great  problems  of  politics  : 
insufficient  to  show  them  how  little  they  know.  The  public  ele- 
mentary school  gives  everybody  the  key  to  knowledge  in  making 


JAMES  BRYCE  219 

reading  and  writing  familiar,  but  it  has  not  time  to  teach  him  how 
to  use  the  key,  whose  use  is  in  fact,  by  the  pressure  of  daily  work, 
almost  confined  to  the  newspaper  and  the  magazine.  So  we  may 
say  that  if  the  political  education  of  the  average  American  voter 
be  compared  with  that  of  the  average  voter  in  Eui-ope,  it  stands 
high  ;  but  if  it  be  compared  with  the  functions  which  the  theory 
of  the  American  government  lays  on  him,  which  its  spirit  implies, 
which  the  methods  of  its  party  organization  assume,  its  inadequacy 
is  manifest.  This  observation,  however,  is  not  so  much  a  reproach 
to  the  schools,  which  generally  do  what  English  schools  omit  — 
instruct  the  child  in  the  principles  of  the  Constitution  —  as  a 
tribute  to  the  height  of  the  ideal  which  the  American  conception 
of  popular  rule  sets  up. 

For  the  functions  of  the  citizen  are  not,  as  has  hitherto  been  the 
case  in  Europe,  confined  to  the  choosing  of  legislators,  who  are 
then  left  to  settle  issues  of  policy  and  select  executive  rulers. 
The  American  citizen  is  one  of  the  governors  of  the  Republic. 
Issues  are  decided  and  rulers  selected  by  the  direct  popular  vote. 
Elections  are  so  frequent  that  to  do  his  duty  at  them  a  citizen 
ought  to  be  constantly  watching  public  affairs  with  a  full  compre- 
hension of  the  principles  involved  in  them,  and  a  judgment  of  the 
candidates  derived  from  a  criticism  of  their  arguments  as  well  as  a 
recollection  of  their  past  careers.  The  instruction  received  in  the 
common  schools  and  from  the  newspapers,  and  supposed  to  be 
developed  by  the  practice  of  primaries  and  conventions,  while  it 
makes  the  voter  deem  himself  capable  of  governing,  does  not  fit 
him  to  weigh  the  real  merits  of  statesmen,  to  discern  the  true 
grounds  on  which  questions  ought  to  be  decided,  to  note  the 
drift  of  events  and  discover  the  direction  in  whjch  parties  are 
being  carried.  He  is  like  a  sailor  who  knows  the  spars  and  ropes 
of  the  ship  and  is  expert  in  working  her,  but  is  ignorant  of  geogra- 
phy and  navigation ;  who  can  perceive  that  some  of  the  officers 
are  smart  and  others  dull,  but  cannot  judge  which  of  them  is 
qualified  to  use  the  sextant  or  will  best  keep  his  head  during  a 
hurricane. 

They  are  a  moral  and  well-conducted  people.  Setting  aside 
the  coUuvies  gentium  ^  which  one  finds  in  Western  mining  camps, 

1  [Offscourings  of  nations.] 


220  NATIONAL    CHARACTERISTICS 

and  which  popular  Hterature  has  presented  to  Europeans  as  fai 
larger  than  it  really  is,  setting  aside  also  the  rabble  of  a  few  great 
cities  and  the  negroes  of  the  South,  the  average  of  temperance, 
chastity,  truthfulness,  and  general  probity  is  somewhat  higher  than 
in  any  of  the  great  nations  of  Europe.  The  instincts  of  the  native 
farmer  or  artisan  are  almost  invariably  kindly  and  charitable.  He 
respects  the  law ;  he  is  deferential  to  women  and  indulgent  to 
children ;  he  attaches  an  almost  excessive  value  to  the  possession 
of  a  genial  manner  and  the  observance  of  domestic  duties. 

They  are  also  a  religious  people.  It  is  not  merely  that  they 
respect  rehgion  and  its  ministers,  for  that  one  might  say  of  Russians 
or  Sicilians,  not  merely  that  they  are  assiduous  church-goers  and 
Sunday-school  teachers,  but  that  they  have  an  intelligent  interest 
in  the  form  of  faith  they  profess,  are  pious  without  superstition, 
and  zealous  without  bigotry.  The  importance  which  they  still, 
though  less  than  formerly,  attach  to  dogmatic  propositions,  does 
not  prevent  them  from  feeling  the  moral  side  of  their  theology. 
Christianity  influences  conduct,  not  indeed  half  as  much  as  in 
theory  it  ought,  but  probably  more  than  it  does  in  any  other 
modern  country,  and  far  more  than  it  did  in  the  so-called  ages  of 
faith. 

Nor  do  their  moral  and  religious  impulses  remain  in  the  soft 
haze  of  self-complacent  sentiment.  The  desire  to  expunge  or 
cure  the  visible  evils  of  the  world  is  strong.  Nowhere  are  so 
many  philanthropic  and  reformatory  agencies  at  work.  Zeal  out- 
runs discretion,  outruns  the  possibilities  of  the  case,  in  not  a  few 
of  the  efforts  made,  as  well  by  legislation  as  by  voluntary  action,  to 
suppress  vice,  to  prevent  intemperance,  to  purify  popular  literature. 

Religion  apart,  they  are  an  unreverential  people.  I  do  not 
mean  irreverent,  —  far  from  it ;  nor  do  I  mean  that  they  have  not 
a  great  capacity  for  hero-worship,  as  they  have  many  a  time  shown. 
I  mean  that  they  are  little  disposed,  especially  in  public  ques- 
tions —  political,  economical,  or  social  —  to  defer  to  the  opinions 
of  those  who  are  wiser  or  better  instructed  than  themselves. 
Everything  tends  to  make  the  individual  independent  and  self- 
reliant.  He  goes  early  into  the  world ;  he  is  left  to  make  his  way 
alone  ;  he  tries  one  occupation  after  another,  if  the  first  or  second 
venture  does  not  prosper ;  he  gets  to  think  that  each  man  is  his 


JAMES  BRYCE  221 

own  best  helper  and  adviser.  Thus  he  is  led,  I  will  not  say  to 
form  his  own  opinions,  for  even  in  America  few  are  those  who  do 
that,  but  to  fancy  that  he  has  formed  them,  and  to  feel  little  need 
of  aid  from  others  towards  correcting  them.  There  is,  therefore, 
less  disposition  than  in  Europe  to  expect  light  and  leading  on 
public  affairs  from  speakers  or  writers.  Oratory  is  not  directed 
towards  instruction,  but  towards  stimulation.  Special  knowledge, 
which  commands  deference  in  applied  science  or  in  finance,  does 
not  command  it  in  politics,  because  that  is  not  deemed  a  special 
subject,  but  one  within  the  comprehension  of  every  practical  man. 
Politics  is,  to  be  sure,  a  profession,  and  so  far  might  seem  to  need 
professional  aptitudes.  But  the  professional  politician  is  not  the 
man  who  has  studied  statesmanship,  but  the  man  who  has  prac- 
tised the  art  of  running  conventions  and  winning  elections. 

Even  that  strong  point  of  America,  the  completeness  and  highly 
popular  character  of  local  government,  contributes  to  lower  the 
standard  of  attainment  expected  in  a  public  man,  because  the 
citizens  judge  of  all  politics  by  the  politics  they  see  first  and 
know  best,  —  those  of  their  township  or  city,  —  and  fancy  that 
he  who  is  fit  to  be  selectman,  or  county  commissioner,  or  alder- 
man, is  fit  to  sit  in  the  great  council  of  the  nation.  Like  the 
shepherd  in  Virgil,  they  think  the  only  difference  between  their 
town  and  Rome  is  in  its  size,  and  believe  that  what  does  for  La- 
fayetteville  will  do  well  enough  for  Washington.  Hence  when 
a  man  of  statesmanhke  gifts  appears,  he  has  httle  encouragement 
to  take  a  high  and  statesmanlike  tone,  for  his  words  do  not  neces- 
sarily receive  weight  from  his  position.  He  fears  to  be  instruc- 
tive or  hortatory,  lest  such  an  attitude  should  expose  him  to 
ridicule ;  and  in  America  ridicule  is  a  terrible  power.  Nothing 
escapes  it.  Few  have  the  courage  to  face  it.  In  the  indulgence 
of  it  even  this  humane  race  can  be  unfeeling. 

They  are  a  busy  people.  I  have  already  observed  that  the 
leisured  class  is  relatively  small,  is  in  fact  confined  to  a  few  East- 
ern cities.  The  citizen  has  little  time  to  think  about  poHtical 
problems.  Engrossing  all  the  working  hours,  his  avocation  leaves 
him  only  stray  moments  for  this  fundamental  duty.  It  is  true 
that  he  admits  his  responsibilities,  considers  himself  a  member 
of  a  party,  takes  some  interest  in  current  events.     But  although 


222  NATIONAL    CHARACTERISTICS 

he  would  reject  the  idea  that  his  thinking  should  be  done  for 
him,  he  has  not  leisure  to  do  it  for  himself,  and  must  practically 
lean  upon  and  follow  his  party.  *^It  astonishes  an  English  visitor 
to  find  how  small  a  part  politics  play  in  conversation  among  the 
wealthier  classes  and  generally  in  the  cities.  During  a  tour  of 
four  months  in  America  in  the  autumn  of  1881,  in  which  I  had 
occasion  to  mingle  with  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  in  all 
parts  of  the  country,  and  particularly  in  the  Eastern  cities,  I  never 
once  heard  American  politics  discussed  except  when  I  or  some 
other  European  brought  the  subject  on  the  carpet.  In  a  presi- 
dential year,  and  especially  during  the  months  of  a  presidential 
campaign,  there  is,  of  course,  abundance  of  private  talk,  as  well 
as  of  public  speaking,  but  even  then  the  issues  raised  are  largely 
personal  rather  than  political  in  the  European  sense.  But  at 
other  times  the  visitor  is  apt  to  feel  —  more,  I  think,  than  he  feels 
anywhere  in  Britain  —  that  his  host  has  been  heavily  pressed  by 
his  own  business  concerns  during  the  day,  and  that  when  the 
hour  of  relaxation  arrives  he  gladly  turns  to  lighter  and  more 
agreeable  topics  than  the  state  of  the  nation.  This  remark  is  less 
apphcable  to  the  dwellers  in  villages.  There  is  plenty  of  political 
chat  round  the  store  at  the  cross  roads,  and  though  it  is  rather 
in  the  nature  of  gossip  than  of  debate,  it  seems,  along  with  the 
practice  of  local  government,  to  sustain  the  interest  of  ordinary 
folk  in  pubhc  affairs.^ 

The  want  of  serious  and  sustained  thinking  is  not  confined  to 
pohtics.  One  feels  it  even  more  as  regards  economical  and  social 
questions.  To  it  must  be  ascribed  the  vitality  of  certain  preju- 
dices and  fallacies  which  could  scarcely  survive  the  continuous 
application  of  such  vigorous  minds  as  one  finds  among  the  Ameri- 
cans. Their  quick  perceptions  serve  them  so  well  in  business 
and  in  the  ordinary  affairs  of  private  life  that  they  do  not  feel  the 
need  for  minute  investigation  and  patient  reflection  on  the  under- 
lying principles  of  things.     They  are  apt  to  ignore  difficulties,  and 

1  The  European  country  where  the  common  people  best  understand  politics  is 
Switzerland.  That  where  they  talk  most  about  politics  is,  I  think,  Greece.  I  re- 
member, for  instance,  in  crossing  the  channel  which  divides  Cephalonia  from 
Ithaca,  to  have  heard  the  boatmen  discuss  a  recent  ministerial  crisis  at  Athens, 
during  the  whole  voyage,  with  the  liveliest  interest  and  apparently  some  knowledge. 


JAMES  BRYCE  223 

when  they  can  no  longer  ignore  them,  they  will  evade  them  rather 
than  lay  siege  to  them  according  to  the  rules  of  art.  The  sense 
that  there  is  no  time  to  spare  haunts  an  American  even  when  he 
might  find  the  time,  and  would  do  best  for  himself  by  finding  it. 

Some  one  will  say  that  an  aversion  to  steady  thinking  belongs 
to  the  average  man  everywhere.  Admitting  this,  I  must  repeat 
once  more  that  we  are  now  comparing  the  Americans  not  with 
average  men  in  other  countries,  but  with  the  ideal  citizens  of  a 
democracy.  We  are  trying  them  by  the  standard  which  the 
theory  of  their  government  assumes.  In  other  countries  states- 
men or  philosophers  do,  and  are  expected  to  do,  the  sohd  think- 
ing for  the  bulk  of  the  people.  Here  the  people  are  expected  to 
do  it  for  themselves.  To  say  that  they  do  it  imperfectly  is  not 
to  deny  them  the  credit  of  doing  it  better  than  a  European  phi- 
losopher might  have  predicted. 

They  are  a  commercial  people,  whose  point  of  view  is  primarily 
that  of  persons  accustomed  to  reckon  profit  and  loss.  Their 
impulse  is  to  apply  a  direct  practical  test  to  men  and  measures, 
to  assume  that  the  men  who  have  got  on  fastest  are  the  smartest 
men,  and  that  a  scheme  which  seems  to  pay  well  deserves  to  be 
supported.  Abstract  reasonings  they  dislike,  subtle  reasonings 
they  suspect ;  they  accept  nothing  as  practical  which  is  not  plain, 
downright,  apprehensible  by  an  ordinary  understanding.  Although 
open-minded,  so  far  as  willingness  to  listen  goes,  they  are  hard  to 
convince,  because  they  have  really  made  up  their  minds  on  most 
subjects,  having  adopted  the  prevailing  notions  of  their  locahty  or 
party  as  truths  due  to  their  own  reflection. 

It  may  seem  a  contradiction  to  remark  that  with  this  shrewd- 
ness and  the  sort  of  hardness  it  produces,  they  are  nevertheless  an 
impressionable  people.  Yet  this  is  true.  It  is  not  their  intellect, 
however,  that  is  impressionable,  but  their  imagination  and  emo- 
tions, which  respond  in  unexpected  ways  to  appeals  made  on  behalf 
of  a  cause  which  seems  to  have  about  it  something  noble  or  pathetic. 
They  are  capable  of  an  ideahty  surpassing  that  of  Englishmen  or 
Frenchmen. 

They  are  an  unsettled  people.  In  no  State  of  the  Union  is  the 
bulk  of  the  population  so  fixed  in  its  residence  as  everywhere  in 
Europe ;  in  many  it  is  almost  nomadic.     Except  in  some  of  the 


224  NATIONAL    CHARACTERISTICS 

Stagnant  districts  of  the  South,  nobody  feels  rooted  to  the  soil. 
Here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow,  he  cannot  readily  contract 
habits  or  trustful  dependence  on  his  neighbours.  Community  of 
interest,  or  of  behef  in  such  a  cause  as  temperance,  or  protection 
for  native  industry,  unites  him  for  a  time  with  others  similarly 
minded,  but  congenial  spirits  seldom  live  long  enough  together 
to  form  a  school  or  type  of  local  opinion  which  develops  strength 
and  becomes  a  proselytizing  force.  Perhaps  this  tends  to  prevent 
the  growth  of  variety  in  opinion.  When  a  man  arises  with  some 
power  of  original  thought  in  politics,  he  is  feeble  if  isolated,  and 
is  depressed  by  his  insignificance,  whereas  if  he  grows  up  in 
favourable  soil  with  sympathetic  minds  around  him,  whom  he  can 
in  prolonged  intercourse  permeate  with  his  ideas,  he  learns  to 
speak  with  confidence  and  soars  on  the  wings  of  his  disciples. 
One  who  considers  the  variety  of  conditions  under  which  men  live 
in  America  may  certainly  find  ground  for  surprise  that  there  should 
be  so  few  independent  schools  of  opinion. 

But  even  while  an  unsettled,  they  are  nevertheless  an  associative, 
because  a  sympathetic  people.  Although  the  atoms  are  in  con- 
stant motion,  they  have  a  strong  attraction  for  one  another.  Each 
man  catches  his  neighbour's  sentiment  more  quickly  and  easily 
than  happens  with  the  English.  That  sort  of  reserve  and  isolation, 
that  tendency  rather  to  repel  than  to  invite  confidence,  which  for- 
eigners attribute  to  the  Englishman,  though  it  belongs  rather  to 
the  upper  and  middle  class  than  to  the  nation  generally,  is,  though 
not  absent,  yet  less  marked  in  America.^  It  seems  to  be  one  of 
the  notes  of  difference  between  the  two  branches  of  the  race.  In 
the  United  States,  since  each  man  likes  to  feel  that  his  ideas  raise 
in  other  minds  the  same  emotions  as  in  his  own,  a  sentiment  or 
impulse  is  rapidly  propagated  and  quickly  conscious  of  its  strength. 
Add  to  this  the  aptitude  for  organization  which  their  history  and 
institutions  have  educed,  and  one  sees  how  the  tendency  to  form 
and  the  talent  to  work  combinations  for  a  political  or  any  other 

1  I  do  not  mean  that  Americans  are  more  apt  to  unbosom  themselves  to 
strangers,  but  that  they  have  rather  more  adaptiveness  than  the  English,  and  are 
less  disposed  to  stand  alone  and  care  nothing  for  the  opinion  of  others.  It  is  worth 
noticing  that  Americans  travelling  abroad  seem  to  get  more  easily  into  touch  with 
the  inhabitants  of  the  country  than  the  English  do;  nor  have  they  the  English  habit 
of  calling  those  inhabitants  —  Frenchmen,  for  instance,  or  Germans  —  "  the  natives. " 


JAMES  BRYCE  2i^ 

object  has  become  one  of  the  great  features  of  the  country. 
Hence,  too,  the  immense  strength  of  party.  It  rests  not  only  on 
interest  and  habit  and  the  sense  of  its  value  as  a  means  of  work- 
ing the  government,  but  also  on  the  sympathetic  element  and 
instinct  of  combination  ingrained  in  the  national  character. 

They  are  a  changeful  people.  Not  fickle,  for  they  are  if  any- 
thing too  tenacious  of  ideas  once,  adopted,  too  fast  bound  by 
party  ties,  too  willing  to  pardon  the  errors  of  a  cherished  leader. 
But  they  have  what  chemists  call  low  specific  heat;  they  grow 
warm  suddenly  and  cool  as  suddenly;  they  are  liable  to  swift 
and  vehement  outbursts  of  feeling  which  rush  like  wildfire  across 
the  country,  gaining  glow,  Hke  the  wheel  of  a  railway  car,  by  the 
accelerated  motion.  The  very  similarity  of  ideas  and  eqliality  Of 
conditions  which  makes  them  hard  to  convince  at  first  makes  a 
conviction  once  implanted  run  its  course  the  more  triumphantly. 
They  seem  all  to  take  flame  at  once,  because  what  has  told  upon 
one,  has  told  in  the  same  way  upon  all  the  rest,  and  the  obstruct- 
ing and  separating  barriers  which  exist  in  Europe  scarcely  exist 
here.  Nowhere  is  the  saying  so  applicable  that  nothing  succeeds 
like  success.  The  native  American  or  so-called  Know-nothing 
party  had  in  two  years  from  its  foundation  become  a  tremendous 
force,  running,  and  seeming  for  a  time  likely  to  carry,  its  own 
presidential  candidate.  In  three  years  more  it  was  dead  without 
hope  of  revival.  Now  and  then,  as  for  instance  in  the  elections 
of  1874-75,  and  again  in  those  of  1890,  there  comes  a  rush  of 
feeling  so  sudden  and  tremendous,  that  the  name  of  Tidal  Wave 
has  been  invented  to  describe  it. 

After  this  it  may  seem  a  paradox  to  add  that  the  Americans 
are  a  conservative  people.  Yet  any  one  who  observes  the  power 
of  habit  among  them,  the  tenacity  with  which  old  institutions 
and  usages,  legal  and  theological  formulas,  have  been  clung  to, 
will  admit  the  fact.  A  love  for  what  is  old  and  established  is  in 
their  English  blood.  Moreover,  prosperity  helps  to  make  them 
conservative.  They  are  satisfied  with  the  world  they  live  in,  for 
they  have  found  it  a  good  world,  in  which  they  have  grown  rich 
and  can  sit  under  their  own  vine  and  fig  tree,  none  making  them 
afraid.  They  are  proud  of  their  history  and  of  their  Constitu- 
tion, w^Ach   has   come'  out   of  the    furnace     of    civil   war   with 


226  THE    ORIGIN   OF   THE    Y  OS  EM  IT E    VALLEY 

scarcely  the  smell  of  fire  upon  it.  It  is  little  to  say  that  they 
do  not  seek  change  for  the  sake  of  change,  because  the  nations 
that  do  this  exist  only  in  the  fancy  of  alarmist  philosophers. 
There  are  nations,  however,  whose  impatience  of  existing  evils, 
or  whose  proneness  to  be  allured  by  visions  of  a  brighter  future, 
makes  them  under-estimate  the  risk  of  change,  nations  that  will 
pull  up  the  plant  to  see  whether  it  has  begun  to  strike  root.  This 
is  not  the  way  of  the  Americans.  They  are  no  doubt  ready  to 
listen  to  suggestions  from  any  quarter.  They  do  not  consider 
th^t  an  institution  is  justified  by  its  existence,  but  admit  everything 
to  be  matter  for  criticism.  Their  keenly  competitive  spirit  and 
pride  in  their  own  ingenuity  have  made  them  quicker  than  any 
other  people  to  adopt  and  adapt  inventions:  telephones  were  in 
use  in  every  httle  town  over  the  West,  while  in  the  city  of  Lon- 
don men  were  just  beginning  to  wonder  whether  they  could  be 
made  to  pay.  I  have  remarked  in  an  earlier  chapter  that  the 
fondness  for  trying  experiments  has  produced  a  good  deal  of 
hasty  legislation,  especially  in  the  newer  States,  and  that  some  of  it 
has  already  been  abandoned.  But  these  admissions  do  not  affect 
the  main  proposition.  The  Americans  are  at  bottom  a  conserva- 
tive people,  in  virtue  both  of  the  deep  instincts  of  their  race  and 
of  that  practical  shrewdness  which  recognizes  the  value  of  per- 
manence and  solidity  in  institutions.  They  are  conservative  in 
their  fundamental  beliefs,  in  the  structure  of  their  governments, 
in  their  social  and  domestic  usages.  They  are  like  a  tree  whose 
pendulous  shoots  quiver  and  rustle  with  the  lightest  breeze,  while 
its  roots  enfold  the  rock  with  a  grasp  which  storms  cannot  loosen. 

THE   ORIGIN    OF   THE   YOSEMITE 

VALLEY 

JOSIAH   DWIGHT   WHITNEY 

[From    The   Yosemite  Guide-Book,   1874.] 

All  will  recognize  in  the  Yosemite  a  peculiar  and  unique  type 
of  scenery.  Cliffs  absolutely  vertical,  like  the  upper  portions  of 
the  Half  Dome  and  El  Capitan,  and  of  such  immense,  height  as 


JO  SI  AH  DWIGHT    WHITNEY  22/ 

I 

these,  are,  so  far  as  we  know,  to  be  seen  nowhere  else.  The  dome 
form  of  mountains  is  exhibited  on  a  grand  scale  in  other  parts  of 
the  Sierra  Nevada ;  but  there  is  no  Half  Dome,  even  among  the 
stupendous  precipices  at  the  head  of  the  King's  River.  No  one 
can  avoid  asking,  What  is  the  origin  of  this  peculiar  type  of  scen- 
ery? How  has  this  unique  valley  been  formed,  and  what  are  the 
geological  causes  which  have  produced  its  wonderful  cliffs,  and  all 
the  other  features  which  combine  to  make  this  locality  so  remark- 
able ?  These  questions  we  will  endeavor  to  answer,  as  well  as  our 
ability  to  pry  into  what  went  on  in  the  deep-seated  regions  of  the 
earth,  in  former  geological  ages,  will  permit. 

Most  of  the  great  cailons  and  valleys  of  the  Sierra  Nevada  have 
resulted  from  aqueous  denudation,  and  in  no  part  of  the  world 
has  this  kind  of  work  been  done  on  a  larger  scale.  The  long- 
continued  action  of  tremendous  torrents  of  water,  rushing  with 
impetuous  velocity  down  the  slopes  of  the  mountains,  has  exca- 
vated those  immense  gorges  by  which  the  chain  of  the  Sierra 
Nevada  is  furrowed,  on  its  western  slope,  to  the  depth  of  thou- 
sands of  feet.  This  erosion,  great  as  it  is,  has  been  done  within  a 
comparatively  recent  period,  geologically  speaking,  as  is  conclu- 
sively demonstrated  in  numerous  localities.  At  the  Abbey's  Ferry 
crossing  of  the  Stanislaus,  for  instance,  a  pordon  of  the  mass  of  , 
Table  Mountain  is  seen  on  each  side  of  the  river,  in  such  a  posi- 
tion as  to  demonstrate  that  the  current  of  the  lava  which  forms 
the  summit  of  this  mountain  once  flowed  continuously  across 
what  is  now  a  cailon  over  2000  feet  deep,  showing  that  the 
erosion  of  that  immense  gorge  has  all  been  effected  since  the 
lava  flowed  down  from  the  higher  portion  of  the  Sierra.  This 
event  took  place,  as  we  know  from  the  fossil  bones  and  plants 
embedded  under  the  volcanic  mass,  at  a  very  recent  geological 
period,  or  in  the  latter  part  of  the  Tertiary  epoch,  and  after  the  / 
appearance  of  man  on  the  earth. 

The  eroded  canons  of  the  Sierra,  however,  whose  formation  is 
due  to  the  action  of  water,  never  have  vertical  walls,  nor  do  their 
sides  present  the  peculiar  angular  forms  which  are  seen  in  the 
Yosemite,  as,  for  instance,  in  El  Capitan;  where  two  perpendic- 
ular surfaces  of  smooth  granite,  more  than  3000  feet  high, 
meet  each  other  at  a  right  angle.     It  is  sufficient  to  look  for  a 


228  THE   ORIGIN   OF  THE    YO SEMITE    VALLEY 

moment  at  the  vertical  faces  of  El  Capitan  and  the  Bridal  Veil 
Rock,  turned  down  the  Valley,  or  away  from  the  direction  in 
which  the  eroding  forces  must  have  acted,  to  be  able  to  say  that 
aqueous  erosion  could  not  have  been  the  agent  employed  to  do 
any  such  work.  The  squarely  cut  re-entering  angles,  like  those 
below  El  Capitan,  and  between  Cathedral  Rock  and  the  Sentinel, 
or  in  the  Illilouette  caiion,  were  never  produced  by  ordinary  ero- 
sion, u.  Much  less  could  any  such  cause  be  called  in  to  account  for 
the  peculiar  formation  of  the  Half  Dome,  the  vertical  portion  of 
which  is  all  above  the  ordinary  level  of  the  walls  of  the  Valley, 
rising  2000  feet,  in  sublime  isolation,  above  any  point  which 
could  have  been  reached  by  denuding  agencies,  even  supposing 
the  current  of  water  to  have  filled  the  whole  Valley^ 

Much  less  can  it  be  supposed  that  the  peculiar  form  of  the 
Yosemite  is  due  to  the  erosive  action  of  ice.  A  more  absurd  the- 
ory was  never  advanced  than  that  by  which  it  was  sought  to 
ascribe  to  glaciers  the  sawing  out  of  these  vertical  walls,  and  the 
rounding  of  the  domes.  Nothing  more  unlike  the  real  work  of 
ice,  as  exhibited  in  the  Alps,  could  be  found.  Besides,  there  is 
no  reason  to  suppose,  or  at  least  no  proof,  that  glaciers  have  ever 
occupied  the  Valley  or  any  portion  of  it,  as  wiU  be  explained  in 
the  next  chapter ;  so  that  this  theory,  based  on  entire  ignorance 
of  the  whole  subject,  may  be  dropped  without  wasting  any  more 
time  upon  it. 

The  theory  of  erosion  not  being  admissible  to  account  for  the 
formation  of  the  Yosemite  Valley,  we  have  to  fall  back  on  some 
one  of  those  movements  of  the  earth's  crust  to  which  the  primal 
forms  of  mountain  valleys  are  due.  The  forces  which  have  acted 
to  produce  valleys  are  complex  in  their  nature,  and  it  is  not  easy 
to  classify  the  forms  which  have  resulted  from  them  in  a  satisfac- 
tory manner.  The  two  principal  types  of  valleys,  however,  are 
those  produced  by  rents  or  fissures  in  the  crust,  and  those  resulting 
from  flexures  or  foldings  of  the  strata.  The  former  are  usually 
transverse  to  the  mountain  chain  in  which  they  occur ;  the  latter 
are  more  frequently  parallel  to  them,  and  parallel  to  the  general 
strike  of  the  strata  of  which  the  mountains  are  made  up.  Valleys 
which  have  originated  in  cross  fractures  are  usually  very  narrow 
defiles,  enclosed  within  steep  walls  of  rocks,  the  steepness  of  the 


JOSIAB  D WIGHT   WHITNEY  229 

walls  increasing  with  the  hardness  of  the  rock.  It  would  be  dififi- 
cult  to  point  to  a  good  example  of  this  kind  of  valley  in  California ; 
the  famous  defile  of  the  Via  Mala  in  Switzerland  is  one  of  the  best 
which  could  be  cited.  Valleys  formed  by  foldings  of  the  strata 
are  very  common  in  many  mountain  chains,  especially  in  those 
typical  ones,  the  Jura  and  the  Appalachian.  Many  of  the  valleys 
of  the  Coast  Ranges  are  of  this  order.  A  valley  formed  in  either 
one  of  the  ways  suggested  above  may  be  modified  afterwards  by 
forces  pertaining  to  either  of  the  others  ;  thus  a  valley  originating 
in  a  transverse  fissure  may  afterwards  become  much  modified  by  an 
erosive  agency,  or  a  longitudinal  flexure  valley  may  have  one  of 
its  sides  raised  up  or  let  down  by  a  "  fault "  or  Une  of  fissure  run- 
ning through  or  across  it. 

If  we  examine  the  Yosemite  to  see  if  traces  of  an  origin  in 
either  of  the  above  ways  can  be  detected  there,  we  obtain  a 
negative  answer.  The  Valley  is  too  wide  to  have  been  formed 
by  a  fissure ;  it  is  about  as  wide  as  it  is  deep,  and,  if  it  had  been 
originally  a  simple  crack,  the  walls  must  have  been  moved  bodily 
away  from  each  other,  carrying  the  whole  chain  of  the  Sierra 
with  them,  to  one  side  or  the  other,  or  both,  for  the  distance  of 
half  a  mile.  Besides,  when  a  cliff  has  been  thus  formed,  there 
will  be  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  the  fact,  from  the  corre- 
spondence of  the  outlines  of  the  two  sides  ;  just  as,  when  we 
break  a  stone  in  two,  the  pieces  must  necessarily  admit  of  being 
fitted  together  again.  No  correspondence  of  the  two  sides  of 
the  Yosemite  can  be  detected,  nor  will  the  most  ingenious  con- 
triving, or  lateral  moving,  suffice  to  bring  them  into  anything 
like  adaptation  to  each  other.  A  square  recess  on  one  side  is 
met  on  the  other,  not  by  a  corresponding  projection,  but  by  a 
plain  wall  or  even  another  cavity.  These  facts  are  sufficient  to 
make  the  adoption  of  the  theory  of  a  rent  or  fissure  impossible. 
There  is  much  the  same  difficulty  in  conceiving  of  the  formation 
of  the  Valley  by  any  flexure  or  folding  process.  The  forms  and 
outlines  of  the  masses  of  rock  limiting  it  are  too  angular,  and 
have  too  little  development  in  any  one  direction;  they  are  cut 
off  squarely  at  the  upper  end,  where  the  ascent  to  the  general 
level  of  the  country  is  by  gigantic  steps,  and  not  by  a  gradual 
rise.     The  direction  of  the  Valley,  too,  is  transverse  to  the  gen- 


230  THE    ORIGIN  OF  THE    YO SEMITE    VALLEY 

eral  line  of  elevation  of  the  mountains,  and  not  parallel  with  it, 
as  it  should  be,  roughly  at  least,  were  it  the  result  of  folding  or 
upheaval. 

In  short,  we  are  led  irresistibly  to  the  adoption  of  a  theory  of 
the  origin  of  the  Yosemite  Valley  in  a  way  which  has  hardly  yet 
been  recognized  as  one  of  those  in  which  valleys  may  be  formed, 
probably  for  the  reason  that  there  are  so  few  cases  in  which 
such  an  event  can  be  absolutely  proved  to  have  occurred.  We 
conceive  that,  during  the  process  of  upheaval  of  the  Sierra,  or, 
possibly,  at  some  time  after  that  had  taken  place,  there  was 
at  the  Yosemite  a  subsidence  of  a  limited  area,  marked  by  lines 
of  "  fault"  or  fissures  crossing  each  other  somewhat  nearly  at 
right  angles.  In  other  and  more  simple  language,  the  bottom 
of  the  Valley  sank  down  to  an  unknown  depth,  owing  to  its 
support  being  withdrawn  from  underneath  during  some  of  those 
convulsive  movements  which  must  have  attended  the  upheaval 
of  so  extensive  and  elevated  a  chain,  no  matter  how  slow  we 
may  imagine  the  process  to  have  been.  Subsidence,  over  ex- 
tensive areas,  of  portions  of  the  earth's  crust,  is  not  at  all  a  new 
idea  in  geology,  and  there  is  nothing  in  this  peculiar  application 
of  it  which  need  excite  surprise.  It  is  the  great  amount  of 
vertical  displacement  for  the  small  area  implicated  which  makes 
this  a  peculiar  case ;  but  it  would  not  be  easy  to  give  any  good 
reason  why  such  an  exceptional  result  should  not  be  brought 
about,  amid  the  complicated  play  of  forces  which  the  elevation 
of  a  great  mountain  chain  must  set  in  motion. 

By  the  adoption  of  the  subsidence  theory  for  the  formation 
of  the  Yosemite,  we  are  able  to  get  over  one  difficulty  which 
appears  insurmountable  with  any  other.  This  is,  the  very  small 
amount  of  debris  at  the  base  of  the  cliffs,  and  even,  at  a  few 
points,  its  entire  absence,  as  previously  noticed  in  our  descrip- 
tion of  the  Valley.  We  see  that  fragments  of  rocks  are  loos- 
ened by  rain,  frost,  gravity,  and  other  natural  causes,  along  the 
walls,  and  probably  not  a  winter  elapses  that  some  great  mass 
of  detritus  does  not  come  thundering  down  from  above,  adding, 
as  it  is  easy  to  see  from  actual  inspection  of  those  slides  which 
have  occurred  within  the  past  few  years,  no  inconsiderable 
amount  to  the  talus.     Several  of   these  great  rock-avalanches 


JOSIAH  DWIGHT   WHITNEY  231 

have  taken  place  since  the  Valley  was  inhabited.  One  which 
fell  near  Cathedral  Rock  is  said  to  have  shaken  the  Valley  like 
an  earthquake.  This  abrasion  of  the  edges  of  the  Valley  has 
unquestionably  been  going  on  during  a  vast  period  of  time  ;  what 
has  become  of  the  delrital  material  ?  Some  masses  of  granites 
now  lying  in  the  Valley  —  one  in  particular  near  the  base  of  the 
Yosemite  Fall  —  are  as  large  as  houses.  Such  masses  as  these 
could  never  have  been  removed  from  the  Valley  by  currents  of 
water ;  in  fact,  there  is  no  evidence  of  any  considerable  amount 
of  aqueous  erosion,  for  the  canon  of  the  Merced  below  the 
Yosemite  is  nearly  free  from  detritus,  all  the  way  down  to  the 
plain.  The  falling  masses  have  not  been  carried  out  by  a  gla- 
cier, for  there  are  below  the  Valley  no  remains  of  the  moraines 
which  such  an  operation  could  not  fail  to  have  formed. 

It  appears  to  us  that  there  is  no  way  of  disposing  of  the  vast 
mass  of  detritus,  which  must  have  fallen  from  the  walls  of  the 
Yosemite  since  the  formation  of  the  Valley,  except  by  assuming 
that  it  has  gone  down  to  fill  the  abyss,  which  was  opened  by  the 
subsidence  which  our  theory  supposes  to  have  taken  place. 
What  the  depth  of  the  chasm  may  have  been  we  have  no  data 
for  computing ;  but  that  it  must  have  been  very  great  is  proved 
by  the  fact  that  it  has  been  able  to  receive  the  accumulation  of 
so  long  a  period  of  time.  The  cavity  was,  undoubtedly,  occu- 
pied by  water,  forming  a  lake  of  unsurpassed  beauty  and  gran- 
deur, until  quite  a  recent  epoch.  The  gradual  desiccation  of 
the  whole  country,  the  disappearance  of  the  glaciers,  and  the 
filling  up  of  the  abyss  to  nearly  a  level  with  the  present  outlet, 
where  the  Valley  passes  into  a  caiion  of  the  usual  form,  have 
converted  the  lake  into  a  valley  with  a  river  meandering  through 
it.  The  process  of  filling  up  still  continues,  and  the  talus  will 
accumulate  perceptibly  fast,  although  a  long  time  must  elapse 
before  the  general  appearance  of  the  Valley  will  be  much  altered 
by  this  cause,  so  stupendous  is  the  vertical  height  of  its  walls, 
and  so  slow  their  crumbling  away,  at  least  as  compared  with  the 
historic  duration  of  time. 

Lake  Tahoe  and  the  valley  which  it  partly  occupies  we  con- 
ceive also  to  be,  like  the  Yosemite,  the  result  of  local  subsidence. 
It  has  evidently  not  been  produced  by  erosion  ;  its  depth  below 


232  ON  A   PIECE   OF  CHALK 

the  mountains  on  each  side,  amounting  to  as  much  as  3000 
feet,  forbids  this  idea,  as  do  also  its  Umited  area  and  its 
parallelism  with  the  axis  of  the  chain.  The  Lake  is  still  very 
deep,  over  1000  feet;  but  how  deep  it  was  originally,  and  how 
much  detritus  has  been  carried  into  it,  we  have  no  data  for  even 
crudely  estimating. 


ON  A  PIECE  OF  CHALK 

A   LECTURE   TO   WORKING   MEN 

THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY 

[From  Lay  Sermons,  Addresses,  aiid Reviews,  1870.] 

If  a  well  were  to  be  sunk  at  our  feet  in  the  midst  of  the  city 
of  Norwich,  the  diggers  would  very  soon  find  themselves  at  work 
in  that  white  substance  almost  too  soft  to  be  called  rock,  with 
which  we  are  all  familiar  as  "  chalk." 

Not  only  here,  but  over  the  whole  country  of  Norfolk,  the 
well-sinker  might  carry  his  shaft  down  many  hundred  feet  with- 
out coming  to  the  end  of  the  chalk  ;  and,  on  the  sea-coast,  where 
the  waves  have  pared  away  the  face  of  the  land  which  breasts 
them,  the  scarped  faces  of  the  high  cliffs  are  often  wholly  formed 
of  the  same  material.  Northward,  the  chalk  may  be  followed  as 
far  as  Yorkshire  ;  on  the  south  coast  it  appears  abruptly  in  the 
picturesque  western  bays  of  Dorset,  and  breaks  into  the  Needles 
of  the  Isle  of  Wight ;  while  on  the  shores  of  Kent  it  supplies 
that  long  line  of  white  cliffs  to  which  England  owes  her  name 
of  Albion. 

Were  the  thin  soil  which  covers  it  all  washed  away,  a  curved 
band  of  white  chalk,  here  broader,  and  there  narrower,  might  be 
followed  diagonally  across  England  from  Lulworth  in  Dorset,  to 
Flamborough  Head  in  Yorkshire  —  a  distance  of  over  280  miles 
as  the  crow  flies. 

From  this  land  to  the  North  Sea,  on  the  east,  and  the  Chan- 
nel, on  the  south,  the  chalk  is  largely  hidden  by  other  deposits ; 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  233 

but,  except  in  the  Weald  of  Kent  and  Sussex,  it  enters  into  the 
very  foundations  of  all  the  south-eastern  counties. 

Attaining,  as  it  does  in  some  places,  a  thickness  of  more  than 
a  thousand  feet,  the  English  chalk  must  be  admitted  to  be  a 
mass  of  considerable  magnitude.  Nevertheless,  it  covers  but 
an  insignificant  portion  of  the  whole  area  occupied  by  the  chalk 
formation  of  the  globe,  which  has  precisely  the  same  general 
characters  as  ours,  and  is  found  in  detached  patches,  some  less, 
and  others  more  extensive,  than  the  English. 

Chalk  occurs  in  north-west  Ireland  ;  it  stretches  over  a  large 
part  of  France,  —  the  chalk  which  underlies  Paris  being,  in 
fact,  a  continuation  of  that  of  the  London  basin  ;  it  runs  through 
Denmark  and  Central  Europe,  and  extends  southward  to  North 
Africa;  while  eastward,  it  appears  in  the  Crimea  and  in  Syria, 
and  may  be  traced  as  far  as  the  shores  of  the  Sea  of  Aral,  in 
Central  Asia. 

If  all  the  points  at  which  true  chalk  occurs  were  circum- 
scribed, they  would  lie  within  an  irregular  oval  about  3000 
miles  in  long  diameter  —  the  area  of  which  w^ould  be  as  great 
as  that  of  Europe,  and  would  many  times  exceed  that  'of  the 
largest  existing  inland  sea  —  the  Mediterranean. 

Thus  the  chalk  is  no  unimportant  element  in  the  masonry  of 
the  earth's  crust,  and  it  impresses  a  peculiar  stamp,  varying  with 
the  conditions  to  which  it  is  exposed,  on  the  scenery  of  the  dis- 
tricts in  which  it  occurs.  The  undulating  downs,  and  .rounded 
coombs,  covered  with  sweet-grassed  turf,  of  our  inland  chalk 
country,  have  a  peacefully  domestic  and  mutton-suggesting 
prettiness,  but  can  hardly  be  called  either  grand  or  beautiful. 
But  on  our  southern  coasts,  the  wall-sided  cliffs,  many  hundred 
feet  high,  with  vast  needles  and  pinnacles  standing  out  in  the 
sea,  sharp  and  solitary  enough  to  serve  as  perches  for  the  wary 
cormorant,  confer  a  wonderful  beauty  and  grandeur  upon  the 
chalk  headlands.  And,  in  the  East,  chalk  has  its  share  in  the 
formation  of  some  of  the  most  venerable  of  mountain  ranges, 
such  as  the  Lebanon. 

*'^  What  is  this  wide-spread  component  of  the  surface  of  the 
earth  ?  and  whence  did  it  come  ? 


234  ^^  ^  PIECE    OF  CHALK 

You  may  think  this  is  no  very  hopeful  inquiry.  You  may  not 
unnaturally  suppose  that  the  attempt  to  solve  such  problems  as 
these  can  lead  to  no  result,  save  that  of  entangling  the  inquirer 
in  vague  speculations,  incapable  of  refutation  and  of  verification. 

If  such  were  really  the  case,  I  should  have  selected  some 
other  subject  than  a  "  piece  of  chalk"  for  my  discourse.  But, 
in  truth,  after  much  deliberation,  I  have  been  unable  to  think 
of  any  topic  which  would  so  well  enable  me  to  lead  you  to 
see  how  solid  is  the  foundation  upon  which  some  of  the  most 
startling  conclusions  of  physical  science  rest. 

A  great  chapter  of  the  history  of  the  world  is  written  in  the 
chalk.  Few  passages  in  the  history  of  man  can  be  supported 
by  such  an  overwhelming  mass  of  direct  and  indirect  evidence 
as  that  which  testifies  to  the  truth  of  the  fragment  of  the  history 
of  the  globe,  which  I  hope  to  enable  you  to  read,  with  your  own 
eyes,  to-night. 

Let  me  add,  that  few  chapters  of  human  history  have  a  more 
profound  significance  for  ourselves.  I  weigh  my  words  well 
when  I  assert,  that  the  man  who  should  know  the  true  history 
of  the  bit  of  chalk  which  every  carpenter  carries  about  in  his 
breeches-pocket,  though  ignorant  of  all  other  history,  is  likely, 
if  he  will  think  his  knowledge  out  to  its  ultimate  results,  to  have 
a  truer,  and  therefore  a  better,  conception  of  this  wonderful  uni- 
verse, and  of  man's  relation  to  it,  than  the  most  learned  student 
who  is  deep-read  in  the  records  of  humanity  and  ignorant  of 
those  of  Nature. 

The  language  of  the  chalk  is  not  hard  to  learn,  not  nearly  so 
hard  as  Latin,  if  you  only  want  to  get  at  the  broad  features  of 
the  story  it  has  to  tell ;  and  I  propose  that  we  now  set  to  work 
to  spell  that  story  out  together. 

We  all  know  that  if  we  "  burn  "  chalk  the  result  is  quicklime. 
Chalk,  in  fact,  is  a  compound  of  carbonic  acid  gas,  and  lime, 
and  when  you  make  it  very  hot  the  carbonic  acid  flies  away  and 
the  lime  is  left. 

By  this  method  of  procedure  we  see  the  lime,  but  we  do  not 
see  the  carbonic  acid.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  were  to  pow- 
der a  little  chalk  and  drop  it  into  a  good  deal  of  strong  vinegar, 
there  would  be  a  great  bubbling  and  fizzing,  and,  finally,  a  clear 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  235 

liquid,  in  which  no  sign  of  chalk  would  appear.  Here  you  see 
the  carbonic  acid  in  the  bubbles  ;  the  lime,  dissolved  in  the  vine- 
gar, vanishes  from  sight.  There  are  a  great  many  other  ways 
of  showing  that  chalk  is  essentially  nothing  but  carbonic  acid 
and  quicklime.  Chemists  enunciate  the  result  of  all  the  experi- 
ments which  prove  this,  by  stating  that  chalk  is  almost  wholly 
composed  of  "  carbonate  of  lime." 

It  is  desirable  for  us  to  start  from  the  knowledge  of  this  fact, 
though  it  may  not  seem  to  help  us  very  far  towards  what  we 
seek.  For  carbonate  of  lime  is  a  widely-spread  substance,  and 
is  met  with  vmder  very  various  conditions'.  All  sorts  of  lime- 
stone are  composed  of  more  or  less  pure  carbonate  of  lime. 
The  crust  which  is  often  deposited  by  waters  which  have  drained 
through  limestone  rocks,  in  the  form  of  what  are  called  stalag- 
mites and  stalactites,  is  carbonate  of  lime.  Or,  to  take  a  more 
familiar  example,  the  fur  on  the  inside  of  a  tea-kettle  is  carbo- 
nate of  lime  ;  and,  for  anything  chemistry  tells  us  to  the  contrary, 
the  chalk  might  be  a  kind  of  gigantic  fur  upon  the  bottom  of 
the  earth-kettle,  which  is  kept  pretty  hot  below. 

Let  us  try  another  method  of  making  the  chalk  tell  its  own 
history.  To  the  unassisted  eye  chalk  looks  simply  like  a  very 
loose  and  open  kind  of  stone.  But  it  is  possible  to  grind  a  slice 
of  chalk  down  so  thin  that  you  can  see  through  it  —  until  it  is 
thin  enough,  in  fact,  to  be  examined  with  any  magnifying  power 
that  may  be  thought  desirable.  A  thin  slice  of  the  fur  of  a 
kettle  might  be  made  in  the  same  way.  If  it  were  examined 
microscopically,  it  would  show  itself  to  be  a  more  or  less  dis- 
tinctly laminated  mineral  substance,  and  nothing  more. 

But  the  slice  of  chalk  presents  a  totally  different  appearance 
when  placed  under  the  microscope.  The  general  mass  of  it 
is  made  up  of  very  minute  granules ;  but,  imbedded  in  this 
matrix,  are  innumerable  bodies,  some  smaller  and  some  larger, 
but,  on  a  rough  average,  not  more  than  a  hundredth  of  an  inch 
in  diameter,  having  a  well-defined  shape  and  structure.  A 
cubic  inch  of  some  specimens  of  chalk  may  contain  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  these  bodies,  compacted  together  with  incalcu- 
lable millions  of  the  granules. 

The  examination  of  a  transparent  slice  gives  a  good  notion  of 


236  ON  A   PIECE    OF  CHALK 

the  manner  in  which  the  components  of  the  chalk  are  arranged, 
and  of  their  relative  proportions.  But,  by  rubbing  up  some 
chalk  with  a  brush  in  water  and  then  pouring  off  the  milky 
fluid,  so  as  to  obtain  sediments  of  different  degrees  of  fineness, 
the  granules  and  the  minute  rounded  bodies  may  be  pretty  well 
separated  from  one  another,  and  submitted  to  microscopic 
examination,  either  as  opaque  or  as  transparent  objects.  By 
combining  the  views  obtained  in  these  various  methods,  each 
of  the  rounded  bodies  may  be  proved  to  be  a  beautifully-con- 
structed calcareous  fabric,  made  up  of  a  number  of  chambers, 
communicating  freely  with  one  another.  The  chambered  bodies 
are  of  various  forms.  One  of  the  commonest  is  something  like 
a  badly-grown  raspberry,  being  formed  of  a  number  of  nearly 
globular  chambers  of  different  sizes  congregated  together.  It 
is  called  Globigerina,  and  some  specimens  of  chalk  consist  of 
little  else  than  Globigerincz  and  granules. 
Jr-  Let  us  fix  our  attention  upon  the  Globigerina.  It  is  the  spoor 
of  the  game  we  are  tracking.  If  we  can  learn  what  it  is  and 
what  are  the  conditions  of  its  existence,  we  shall  see  our  way 
to  the  origin  and  past  history  of  the  chalk, 

A  suggestion  which  may  naturally  enough  present  itself  is, 
that  these  curious  bodies  are  the  result  of  some  process  of 
aggregation  which  has  taken  place  in  the  carbonate  of  lime ; 
that,  just  as  in  winter,  the  rime  on  our  windows  simulates  the 
most  delicate  and  elegantly  arborescent  foliage  —  proving  that 
the  mere  mineral  water  may,  under  certain  conditions,  assume 
the  outward  form  of  organic  bodies  —  so  this  mineral  substance, 
carbonate  of  lime,  hidden  away  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  has 
taken  the  shape  of  these  chambered  bodies.  I  am  not  raising 
a  merely  fanciful  and  unreal  objection.  Very  learned  men,  in 
former  days,  have  even  entertained  the  notion  that  all  the 
formed  things  found  in  rocks  are  of  this  nature ;  and  if  no  such 
conception  is  at  present  held  to  be  admissible,  it  is  because  long 
and  varied  experience  has  now  shown  that  mineral  "matter 
never  does  assume  the  form  and  structure  we  find  in  fossils. 
If  any  one  were  to  try  to  persuade  you  that  an  oyster-shell 
(which  is  also  chiefly  composed  of  carbonate  of  lime)  had 
crystallized  out  of  sea-water,  I  suppose  you  would  laugh  at  the 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  23/ 

absurdity.  Your  laughter  would  be  justified  by  the  fact  that  all 
experience  tends  to  show  that  oyster-shells  are  formed  by  the 
agency  of  oysters,  and  in  no  other  way.  And  if  there  were  no 
better  reasons,  we  should  be  justified,  on  like  grounds,  in  be- 
lieving that  Globigeriiia  is  not  the  product  of  anything  but 
vital  activity. 

Happily,  however,  better  evidence  in  proof  of  the  organic 
nature  of  the  Globigtriuce  than  that  of  analogy  is  forthcoming. 
It  so  happens  that  calcareous  skeletons,  exactly  similar  to  the 
Globigerinct  of  the  chalk,  are  being  formed,  at  the  present 
moment,  by  minute  living  creatures,  which  flourish  in  multitudes, 
literally  more  numerous  than  the  sands  of  the  sea-shore,  over  a 
large  extent  of  that  part  of  the  earth's  surface  which  is  covered 
by  the  ocean. 

The  history  of  the  discovery  of  these  living  Glohiger'mce,  and 
of  the  part  which  they  play  in  rock  building,  is  singular  enough. 
It  is  a  discovery  which,  like  others  of  no  less  scientific  impor- 
tance, has  arisen,  incidentally,  out  of  work  devoted  to  very  dif- 
ferent and  exceedingly  practical  interests. 

When  men  first  took  to  the  sea,  they  speedily  learned  to  look 
out  for  shoals  and  rocks  ;  and  the  more  the  burthen  of  their 
ships  increased,  the  more  imperatively  necessary  it  became  for 
sailors  to  ascertain  with  jDrecision  the  depth  of  the  waters  they 
, traversed.  Out  of  this  necessity  grew  the  use  of  the  lead  and 
sounding  line  ;  and,  ultimately,  marine-surveying,  which  is  the 
recording  of  the  form  of  coasts  and  of  the  depth  of  the  sea,  as 
ascertained  by  the  sounding-lead,  upon  charts. 

At  the  same  time,  it  became  desirable  to  ascertain  and  to 
indicate  the  nature  of  the  sea-bottom,  since  this  circumstance 
greatly  affects  its  goodness  as  holding  ground  for  anchors. 
Some  ingenious  tar,  whose  name  deserves  a  better  fate  than  the 
oblivion  into  which  it  has  fallen,  attained  this  object  by  "  arm- 
ing "  the  bottom  of  the  lead  with  a  lump  of  grease,  to  which 
more  or  less  of  the  sand  or  mud,  or  broken  shells,  as  the  case 
might  be,  adhered,  and  was  brought  to  the  surface.  But,  how- 
ever well  adapted  such  an  apparatus  might  be  for  rough  nauti- 
cal purposes,  scientific  accuracy  could  not  be  expected  from  the 
armed. lead,  and  to  remedy  its  defects  (especially  when  applied 


238  ON  A  PIECE   OF  CHALK 

to  sounding  in  great  depths)  Lieut.  Brooke,  of  the  American 
Navy,  some  years  ago  invented  a  most  ingenious  machine,  by 
which  a  considerable  portion  of  the  superficial  layer  of  the  sea- 
bottom  can  be  scooped  out  and  brought  up,  from  any  depth  to 
which  the  lead  descends. 

In  1853,  Lieut.  Brooke  obtained  mud  from  the  bottom  of 
the  North  Atlantic,  between  Newfoundland  and  the  Azores,  at 
a  depth  of  more  than  10,000  feet,  or  two  miles,  by  the  help  of 
this  sounding  apparatus.  The  specimens  were  sent  for  exami- 
nation to  Ehrenberg  of  Berhn,  and  to  Bailey  of  West  Point, 
and  those  able  microscopists  found  that  this  deep-sea  mud 
was  almost  entirely  composed  of  the  skeletons  of  living  organ- 
isms —  the  greater  proportion  of  these  being  just  hke  the  Globi- 
gerince  already  known  to  occur  in  the  chalk. 

Thus  far,  the  work  had  been  carried  on  simply  in  the  inter- 
ests of  science,  but  Lieut.  Brooke's  method  of  sounding  ac- 
quired a  high  commercial  value,  when  the  enterprise  of  laying 
down  the  telegraph-cable  between  this  country  and  the  United 
States  was  undertaken.  For  it  became  a  matter  of  immense 
importance  to  know,  not  only  the  depth  of  the  sea  over  the 
whole  line  along  which  the  cable  was  to  be  laid,  but  the  exact 
nature  of  the  bottom,  so  as  to  guard  against  chances  of  cutting 
or  fraying  the  strands  of  that  costly  rope.  The  Admiralty  con- 
sequently ordered  Captain  Dayman,  an  old  friend  and  ship- 
mate of  mine,  to  ascertain  the  depth  over  the  whole  line  of  the 
cable,  and  to  bring  back  specimens  of  the  bottom.  In  former 
days,  such  a  command  as  this  might  have  sounded  very  much 
like  one  of  the  impossible  things  which  the  young  prince  in  the 
Fairy  Tales  is  ordered  to  do  before  he  can  obtain  the  hand  of  the 
princess.  However,  in  the  months  of  June  and  July,  1857,  my 
friend  performed  the  task  assigned  to  him  with  great  expedition 
and  precision,  without,  so  far  as  I  know,  having  met  with  any 
reward  of  that  kind.  The  specimens  of  Atlantic  mud  which  he 
procured  were  sent  to  me  to  be  examined  and  reported  upon. 

The  result  of  all  these  operations  is,  that  we  know  the  con- 
tours and  the  nature  of  the  surface-soil  covered  by  the  North 
Atlantic,  for  a  distance  of  1700  miles  from  east  to  west,  as  well 
as  we  know  that  of  any  part  of  the  dry  land. 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  I49 

It  is  a  prodigious  plain  —  one  of  the  widest  and  most  even 
plains  in  the  world.  If  the  sea  were  drained  off,  you  might 
drive  a  wagon  all  the  way  from  Valentia,  on  the  west  coast  of 
Ireland,  to  Trinity  Bay,  in  Newfoundland.  And,  except  upon 
one  sharp  incline  about  200  miles  from  Valentia,  I  am  not 
quite  sure  that  it  would  even  be  necessary  to  put  the  skid  on, 
so  gentle  are  the  ascents  and  descents  upon  that  long  route. 
From  Valentia  the  road  would  lie  down-hill  for  about  200  miles 
to  the  point  at  which  the  bottom  is  now  covered  by  1700 
fathoms  of  sea- water.  Then  would  come  the  central  plain, 
more  than  1000  miles  wide,  the  inequalities  of  the  surface  of 
which  would  be  hardly  perceptible,  though  the  depth  of  water 
upon  it  now  varies  from  10,000  to  15,000  feet;  and  there  are 
places  in  which  Mont  Blanc  might  be  sunk  without  showing  its 
peak  above  water.  Beyond  this,  the  ascent  on  the  American 
side  commences,  and  gradually  leads,  for  about  300  miles,  to 
the  Newfoundland  shore. 

Almost  the  whole  of  the  bottom  of  this  central  plain  (which 
extends  for  many  hundred  miles  in  a  north  and  south  direction) 
is  covered  by  a  fine  mud,  which,  when  brought  to  the  surface, 
dries  into  a  greyish-white  friable  substance.  You  can  write 
with  this  on  a  blackboard,  if  you  are  so  inclined  ;  and,  to  the 
eye,  it  is  quite  like  very  soft,  greyish  chalk.  Examined  chemi- 
cally, it  proves  to  be  composed  almost  wholly  of  carbonate  of 
lime  ;  and  if  you  make  a  section  of  it,  in  the  same  way  as  that  of 
the  piece  of  chalk  was  made,  and  view  it  with  the  microscope,  it 
presents  innumerable  Globigerince  embedded  in  a  granular  matrix. 

Thus  this  deep-sea  mud  is  substantially  chalk.  I  say  substan- 
tially, because  there  are  a  good  many  minor  differences  ;  but  as 
these  have  no  bearing  on  the  question  immediately  before  us,  — 
which  is  the  nature  of  the  Globigerince  of  the  chalk,  —  it  is  unnec- 
essary to  speak  of  them. 

Globigerince.  of  every  size,  from  the  smallest  to  the  largest,  are 
associated  together  in  the  Atlantic  mud,  and  the  chambers  of 
many  are  filled  by  a  soft  animal  matter.  This  soft  substance 
is,  in  fact,  the  remains  of  the  creature  to  which  the  Globigerina 
shell,  or  rather  skeleton,  owes  its  existence  —  and  which  is  an 
animal  of  the  simplest  imaginable  description.     It  is,  in  fact,  a 


240  ON  A    PIECE    OF  CHALK 

mere  particle  of  living  jelly,  without  defined  parts  of  any  kind  — 
without  a  mouth,  nerves,  muscles,  or  distinct  organs,  and  only 
manifesting  its  vitality  to  ordinary  observation  by  thrusting  out 
and  retracting  from  all  parts  of  its  surface,  long  filamentous 
processes,  which  serve  for  arms  and  legs.  Yet  this  amorphous 
particle,  devoid  of  everything  which,  in  the  higher  animals,  we 
call  organs,  is  capable  of  feeding,  growing,  and  multiplying ;  of 
separating  from  the  ocean  the  small  proportion  of  carbonate 
of  lime  which  is  dissolved  in  sea  water ;  and  of  building  up  that 
substance  into  a  skeleton  for  itself,  according  to  a  pattern  which 
can  be  imitated  by  no  other  known  agency. 

The  notion  that  animals  can  live  and  flourish  in  the  sea,  at 
the  vast  depths  from  which  apparently  living  GIobigerincE  have 
been  brought  up,  does  not  agree  very  well  with  our  usual  con- 
ceptions respecting  the  conditions  of  animal  life  ;  and  it  is  not 
so  absolutely  impossible  as  it  might  at  first  sight  appear  to  be, 
that  the  Globigerina;  of  the  Atlantic  sea-bottom  do  not  live  and 
die  where  they  are  found. 

As  I  have  mentioned,  the  soundings  from  the  great  Atlantic 
plain  are  almost  entirely  made  up  of  Globigerince,  with  the 
granules  which  have  been  mentioned,  and  some  few  other  cal- 
careous shells  ;  but  a  small  percentage  of  the  chalky  mud  —  per- 
haps at  most  some  five  per  cent,  of  it  —  is  of  a  different  nature, 
and  consists  of  shells  and  skeletons  composed  of  silex,  or  pure 
flint.  These  silicious  bodies  belong  partly  to  the  lowly  vege- 
table organisms  which  are  called  Diaiomacece,  and  partly  to  the 
minute,  and  extremely  simple,  animals,  termed  Radiolaria.  It 
is  quite  certain  that  these  creatures  do  not  live  at  the  bottom 
of  the  ocean,  but  at  its  surface  —  where  they  may  be  obtained  in 
prodigious  numbers  by  the  use  of  a  properly  constructed  net. 
Hence  it  follows  that  these  siUcious  organisms,  though  they  are 
not  heavier  than  the  lightest  dust,  must  have  fallen,  in  some 
cases,  through  fifteen  thousand  feet  of  water,  before  they  reached 
their  final  resting-place  on  the  ocean-floor.  And,  considering 
how  large  a  surface  these  bodies  expose  in  proportion  to  their 
weight,  it  is  probable  that  they  occupy  a  great  length  of  time  in 
making  their  burial  journey  from  the  surface  of  the  Atlantic 
to  the  bottom. 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  24 1 

But  if  the  Radiolaria  and  Diatoms  are  thus  rained  upon  the 
bottom  of  the  sea,  from  the  superficial  layer  of  its  waters  in 
which  they  pass  their  lives,  it  is  obviously  possible  that  the 
Globigerince  may  be  similarly  derived  ;  and  if  they  were  so,  it 
would  be  much  more  easy  to  understand  how  they  obtain  their 
supply  of  food  than  it  is  at  present.  Nevertheless,  the  positive 
and  negative  evidence  all  points  the  other  way.  The  skeletons 
of  the  full-grown,  deep-sea  Globigerince  are  so  remarkably  solid 
and  heavy  in  proportion  to  their  surface  as  to  seem  little  fitted 
for  floating ;  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  they  are  not  to  be  found 
along  with  the  Diatoms  and  Radiolaria,  in  the  uppermost  stratum 
of  the  open  ocean. 

It  has  been  observed,  again,  that  the  abundance  of  Globigerince, 
in  proportion  to  other  organisms,  of  like  kind,  increases  with 
the  depth  of  the  sea;  and  that  deep-water  Globigerince  are 
larger  than  those  which  live  in  shallower  parts  of  the  sea ; 
and  such  facts  negative  the  supposition  that  these  organisms 
have  been  swept  by  currents  from  the  shallows  into  the  deeps 
of  the  Atlantic, 

It  therefore  seems  to  be  hardly  doubtful  that  these  wonderful 
creatures  Hve  and  die  at  the  depths  in  Avhich  they  are  found. 

However,  the  important  points  for  us  are,  that  the  living 
Globigerince  axe.  exclusively  marine  animals,  the  skeletons  of 
which  abound  at  the  bottom  of  deep  seas ;  and  that  there  is  not 
a  shadow  of  reason  for  believing  that  the  habits  of  the  G/obi- 
gerincz  of  the  chalk  differed  from  those  of  the  existing  species. 
But  if  this  be  true,  there  is  no  escaping  the  conclusion  that  the 
chalk  itself  is  the  dried  mud  of  an  ancient  deep  sea. 

In  working  over  the  soundings  collected  by  Captain  Dayman, 
I  was  surprised  to  find  that  many  of  what  I  have  called  the 
"  granules  "  of  that  mud,  were  not,  as  one  might  have  been 
tempted  to  think  at  first,  the  mere  powder  and  waste  of  Globi- 
gerince, but  that  they  had  a  definite  form  and  size.  I  termed 
these  bodies  "■  coccoliths''  and  doubted  their  organic  nature.  Dr. 
Wallich  verified  my  observation,  and  added  the  interesting  dis- 
covery that,  not  unfrequently, bodies  similar  to  these  "  coccoliths  " 
were  aggregated  together  into  spheroids,  which  he  termed  "  coc- 
cospheres y     So  far  as  we  knew,  these  bodies,  the  nature  of  which 

R 


242  ON  A  PIECE   OF    CHALK 

is  extremely  puzzling  and  problematical,  were  peculiar  to  the 
Atlantic  soundings. 

But,  a  few  years  ago,  Mr.  Sorby,  in  making  a  careful  exami- 
nation of  the  chalk  by  means  of  thin  sections  and  otherwise, 
observed,  as  Ehrenberg  had  done  before  him,  that  much  of  its 
granular  basis  possesses  a  definite  form.  Comparing  these 
formed  particles  with  those  in  the  Atlantic  soundings,  he  found 
the  two  to  be  identical ;  and  thus  proved  that  the  chalk,  like  the 
soundings,  contains  these  mysterious  coccoliths  and  coccospheres. 
Here  was  a  further  and  a  most  interesting  confirmation,  from  in- 
ternal evidence,  of  the  essential  identity  of  the  chalk  with  modern 
deep-sea  mud.  Globigerince,  coccoliths,  and  coccospheres  are 
found  as  the  chief  constituents  of  both,  and  testify  to  the  general 
similarity  of  the  conditions  under  which  both  have  been  formed. 

The  evidence  furnished  by  the  hewing,  facing,  and  superposi- 
tion of  the  stones  of  the  Pyramids,  that  these  structures  were 
built  by  men,  has  no  greater  weight  than  the  evidence  that  the 
chalk  was  built  by  Globigerince  ;  and  the  belief  that  those  ancient 
pyramid-builders  were  terrestrial  and  air-breathing  creatures  like 
ourselves,  is  not  better  based  than  the  conviction  that  the  chalk- 
makers  lived  in  the  sea. 

But  as  our  belief  in  the  building  of  the  Pyramids  by  men  is 
not  only  grounded  on  the  internal  evidence  afforded  by  these 
structures,  but  gathers  strength  from  multitudinous  collateral 
proofs,  and  is  clinched  by  the  total  absence  of  any  reason  for  a 
a  contrary  belief ;  so  the  evidence  drawn  from  the  Globigerince 
that  the  chalk  is  an  ancient  sea-bottom,  is  fortified  by  innumer- 
able independent  lines  of  evidence  ;  and  our  belief  in  the  truth 
of  the  conclusion  to  which  all  positive  testimony  tends,  receives 
the  like  negative  justification  from  the  fact  that  no  other  hypothe- 
sis has  a  shadow  of  foundation. 

It  may  be  worth  while  briefly  to  consider  a  few  of  these  col-  /-  "^ 
lateral  proofs  that  the  chalk  was  deposited  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

The  great  mass  of  the  chalk  is  composed,  as  we  have  seen,  of 
the  skeletons  of  Globigerince,  and  other  simple  organisms,  im- 
bedded in  granular  matter.  Here  and  there,  however,  this 
hardened  mud  of  the  ancient  sea  reveals  the  remains  of  higher 
animals  which  have  lived  and  died,  and  left  their  hard  parts  in 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  243 

the  mud,  just  as  the  oysters  die  and  leave  their  shells  behind 
them,  in  the  mud  of  the  present  seas. 

There  are,  at  the  present  day,  certain  groups  of  animals  which 
are  never  found  in  fresh  waters,  being  unable  to  live  anywhere 
but  in  the  sea.  Such  are  the  corals  ;  those  corallines  which  are 
called  Polyzoa ;  those  creatures  which  fabricate  the  lamp-shells, 
and  are  called  Brachiopoda  ;  the  pearly  Nautilus,  and  all  animals 
allied  to  it ;  and  all  the  forms  of  sea-urchins  and  star-fishes. 

Not  only  are  all  these  creatures  confined  to  salt  water  at  the 
present  time  ;  but,  so  far  as  our  records  of  the  past  go,  the  con- 
ditions of  their  existence  have  been  the  same  :  hence,  their 
occurrence  in  any  deposit  is  as  strong  evidence  as  can  be  ob- 
tained that  that  deposit  was  formed  in  the  sea.  Now  the 
remains  of  animals  of  all  the  kinds  which  have  been  enumerated, 
occur  in  the  chalk,  in  greater  or  less  abundance  ;  while  not  one 
of  those  forms  of  shell-fish  which  are  characteristic  of  fresh 
water  has  yet  been  observed  in  it. 

When  we  consider  that  the  remains  of  more  than  three  thou- 
sand distinct  species  of  aquatic  animals  have  been  discovered 
among  the  fossils  of  the  chalk,  that  the  great  majority  of  them 
are  of  such  forms  as  are  now  met  with  only  in  the  sea,  and  that 
there  is  no  reason  to  believe  that  any  one  of  them  inhabited 
fresh  water  —  the  collateral  evidence  that  the  chalk  represents 
an  ancient  sea-bottom  acquires  as  great  force  as  the  proof  de- 
rived from  the  nature  of  the  chalk  itself.  I  think  you  will  now 
allow  that  I  did  not  overstate  my  case  when  I  asserted  that  we 
have  as  strong  grounds  for  believing  that  all  the  vast  area  of  dry 
land,  at  present  occupied  by  the  chalk,  was  once  at  the  bottom  of 
the  sea,  as  we  have  for  any  matter  of  history  whatever ;  while 
there  is  no  justification  for  any  other  belief. 

No  less  certain  it  is  that  the  time  during  which  the  countries 
we  now  call  south-east  England,  France,  Germany,  Poland,  Rus- 
sia, Egypt,  Arabia,  Syria,  were  more  or  less  completely  covered 
by  a  deep  sea,  was  of  considerable  duration. 

We  have  already  seen  that  the  chalk  is,  in  places,  more  than  a 
thousand  feet  thick.  I  think  you  will  agree  with  me,  that  it 
must  have  taken  some  time  for  the  skeletons  of  animalcules  of 
a  hundredth  of  an  inch  in  diameter  to  heap  up  such  a  mass  as 


244  ^^  ^   PIECE    OF  CHALK 

that.  I  have  said  that  throughout  the  thickness  of  the  chalk 
the  remains  of  other  animals  are  scattered.  These  remains  are 
often  in  the  most  exquisite  state  of  preservation.  The  valves  of 
the  shell-fishes  are  commonly  adherent ;  the  long  spines  of  some 
of  the  sea-urchins,  which  would  be  detached  by  the  smallest  jar, 
often  remain  in  their  places.  In  a  word,  it  is  certain  that  these 
animals  have  lived  and  died  when  the  place  which  they  now 
occupy  was  the  surface  of  as  much  of  the  chalk  as  had  then 
been  deposited  ;  and  that  each  has  been  covered  up  by  the  layer 
of  G/obigerina  mud,  upon  which  the  creatures  imbedded  a  little 
higher  up  have,  in  like  manner,  lived  and  died.  But  some  of 
these  remains  prove  the  existence  of  reptiles  of  vast  size  in  the 
chalk  sea.  These  lived  their  time,  and  had  their  ancestors  and 
descendants,  which  assuredly  implies  time,  reptiles  being  of  slow 
growth. 

.  There  is  more  curious  evidence,  again,  that  the  process  of 
covering  up,  or,  in  other  words,  the  deposit  of  Glohigcrina  skele- 
tons, did  not  go  on  very  fast.  It  is  demonstrable  that  an  ani- 
mal of.  the  cretaceous  sea  might  die,  that  its  skeleton  might  lie 
uncovered  upon  the  sea-bottom  long  enough  to  lose  all  its  out- 
ward coverings  and  appendages  by  putrefaction  ;  and  that,  after 
this  had  happened,  another  animal  might  attach  itself  to  the 
dead  and  naked  skeleton,  might  grow  to  maturity,  and  might 
itself  die  before  the  calcareous  mud  had  buried  the  whole. 

Cases  of  this  kind  are  admirably  described  by  Sir  Charles 
Lyell.  He  speaks  of  the  frequency  with  which  geologists  find 
in  the  chalk  a  fossilized  sea-urchin,  to  which  is  attached  the 
lower  valve  of  a  Crania.  This  is  a  kind  of  shell-fish,  with  a  shell 
composed  of  two  pieces,  of  which,  as  in  the  oyster,  one  is  fixed 
and  the  other  free. 

"  The  upper  valve  is  almost  invariably  wanting,  though  occa- 
sionally found  in  a  perfect  state  of  preservation  in  the  white 
chalk  at  some  distance.  In  this  case,  we  see  clearly  that  the 
sea-urchin  first  lived  from  youth  to  age,  then  died  and  lost  its 
spines,  which  were  carried  away.  Then  the  young  Crania  ad- 
hered to  the  bared  shell,  grew  and  perished  in  its  turn  ;  after 
which,  the  upper  valve  was  separated  from  the  lower,  before  the 
Echinus  became  enveloped  in  chalky  mud." 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  245 

A  specimen  in  the  Museum  of  Practical  Geology,  in  London, 
still  further  prolongs  the  period  which  must  have  elapsed  be- 
tween the  death  of  the  sea-urchin,  and  its  burial  by  the  Glohi- 
gerince.  For  the  outward  face  of  the  valve  of  a  Crania,  which 
is  attached  to  a  sea-urchin  {Mkrasfer)  is  itself  overrun  by  an 
incrusting  coralline,  which  spreads  thence  over  more  or  less  of 
the  surface  of  the  sea-urchin.  It  follows  that,  after  the  upper 
valve  of  the  Crania  fell  off,  the  surface  of  the  attached  valve 
must  have  remained  exposed  long  enough  to  allow  the  growth  of 
the  whole  coralline,  since  corallines  do  not  live  imbedded  in  mud. 

The  progress  of  knowledge  may,  one  day,  enable  us  to  deduce 
from  such  facts  as  these  the  maximum  rate  at  which  the  chalk 
can  have  accumulated,  and  thus  to  arrive  at  the  minimum  dura- 
tion of  the  chalk  period.  Suppose  that  the  valve  of  the  Crania 
upon  which  a  coralline  has  fixed  itself  in  the  way  just  described, 
is  so  attached  to  the  sea-urchin  that  no  part  of  it  is  more  than 
an  inch  above  the  face  upon  which  the  sea-urchin  rests.  Then, 
as  the  coralline  could  not  have  fixed  itself,  if  the  Crania  had 
been  covered  up  with  chalk  mud,  and  could  not  have  lived  had  | 
itself  been  so  covered,  it  follows,  that  an  inch  of  chalk  mud 
could  not  have  accumulated  within  the  time  between  the  death 
and  decay  of  the  soft  parts  of  the  sea-urchin  and  the  growth  of 
the  coralline  to  the  full  size  which  it  has  a*teiTied.  If  the  decay 
of  the  soft  parts  of  the  sea-urchin  ;  the  attachment,  growth  to 
maturity,  and  decay  of  the  Crania;  and  the  subsequent  attach- 
ment and  growth  of  the  coralline,  took  a  year  (which  is  a  low  esti- 
mate enough),  the  accumulation  of  the  inch  of  chalk  must  have 
taken  more  than  a  year  :  and  the  depth  of  a  thousand  feet  of 
chalk  must,  consequently,  have  taken  more  than  twelve  thou- 
sand years. 

The  foundation  of  all  this  calculation  is,  of  course,  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  length  of  time  the  Crania  and  the  coralline  needed 
to  attain  their  full  size  ;  and,  on  this  head,  precise  knowledge  is 
at  present  wanting.  But  there  are  circumstances  which  tend  to 
show,  that  nothing  like  an  inch  of  chalk  has  accumulated  during 
the  life  of  a  Crania  ;  and,  on  any  probable  estimate  of  the  length 
of  that  life,  the  chalk  period  must  have  had  a  much  longer  dura- 
tion than  that  thus  roughly  assigned  to  it. 


246  ON  A   PIECE    OF  CHALK 

Thus,  not  only  is  it  certain  that  the  chalk  is  the  mud  of  an 
ancient  sea-bottom  ;  but  it  is  no  less  certain,  that  the  chalk  sea 
existed  during  an  extremely  long  period,  though  we  may  not  be 
prepared  to  give  a  precise  estimate  of  the  length  of  that  period 
in  years.  The  relative  duration  is  clear,  though  the  absolute 
duration  may  not  be  definable.  The  attempt  to  affix  any  precise 
date  to  the  period  at  which  the  chalk  sea  began,  or  ended,  its 
existence,  is  baffled  by  difficulties  of  the  same  kind.  But  the 
relative  age  of  the  cretaceous  epoch  may  be  determined  with 
as  great  ease  and  certainty  as  the  long  duration  of  that  epoch. 

You  will  have  heard  of  the  interesting  discoveries  recently 
made,  in  various  parts  of  Western  Europe,  of  flint  implements, 
obviously  worked  into  shape  by  human  hands,  under  circum- 
stances which  show  conclusively  that  man  is  a  very  ancient 
denizen  of  these  regions. 

It  has  been  proved  that  the  old  populations  of  Europe,  whose 
existence  has  been  revealed  to  us  in  this  way,  consisted  of  sav- 
ages, such  as  the  Esquimaux  are  now ;  that,  in  the  country 
which  is  now  France,  they  hunted  the  reindeer,  and  were  famil- 
iar with  the  mammoth  and  the  bison.  The  physical  geography 
of  France  was  in  those  days  different  from  what  it  is  now  —  the 
river  Somme,  for  instance,  having  cut  its  bed  a  hundred  feet 
deeper  between  that  time  and  this  ;  and  it  is  probable  that  the 
climate  was  more  like  that  of  Canada  or  Siberia,  than  that  of 
Western  Europe. 

The  existence  of  these  people  is  forgotten  even  in  the  tradi- 
tions of  the  oldest  historical  nations.  The  name  and  fame  of 
them  had  utterly  vanished  until  a  few  years  back;  and  the 
amount  of  physical  change  which  has  been  effected  since  their 
day,  renders  it  more  than  probable  that,  venerable  as  are  some 
of  the  historical  nations,  the  workers  of  the  chipped  flints  of 
Hoxne  or  of  Amiens  are  to  them,  as  they  are  to  us,  in  point  of 
antiquity. 

But,  if  we  assign  to  these  hoar  relics  of  long-vanished  genera- 
tions of  men  the  greatest  age  that  can  possibly  be  claimed  for 
them,  they  are  not  older  than  the  drift,  or  boulder  clay,  which, 
in  comparison  with  the  chalk,  is  but  a  very  juvenile  deposit. 
You  need  go  no  further  than  your  own  sea-board  for  evidence 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  24/ 

of  this  fact.  At  one  of  the  most  charming  spots  on  the  coast  of 
Norfolk,  Cromer,  you  will  see  the  boulder  clay  forming  a  vast 
mass,  which  Hes  upon  the  chalk,  and  must  consequently  have 
come  into  existence  after  it.  Huge  boulders  of  chalk  are,  in 
fact,  included  in  the  clay,  and  have  evidently  been  brought  to 
the  position  they  now  occupy,  by  the  same  agency  as  that  which 
has  planted  blocks  of  syenite  from  Norway  side  by  side  with 
them. 

The  chalk,  then,  is  certainly  older  than  the  boulder  clay.  If 
you  ask  how  much,  I  will  again  take  you  no  further  than  the 
same  spot  upon  your  own  coasts  for  evidence.  I  have  spoken 
of  the  boulder  clay  and  drift  as  resting  upon  the  chalk.  That 
is  not  strictly  true.  Interposed  between  the  chalk  and  the  drift 
is  a  comparatively  insignificant  layer,  containing  vegetable  mat- 
ter. But  that  layer  tells  a  wonderful  history.  It  is  full  of 
stumps  of  trees  standing  as  they  grew.  Fir-trees  are  there  with 
their  cones,  and  hazel-bushes  with  their  nuts  ;  there  stand  the 
stools  of  oak  and  yew  trees,  beeches  and  alders.  Hence  this 
stratum  is  appropriately  called  the  "forest-bed." 

It  is  obvious  that  the  chalk  must  have  been  upheaved  and  con- 
verted into  dry  land,  before  the  timber  trees  could  grow  upon  it. 
As  the  bolls  of  some  of  these  trees  are  from  two  to  three  feet  in 
diameter,  it  is  no  less  clear  that  the  dry  land  thus  formed  re- 
mained in  the  same  conditions  for  long  ages.  And  not  only 
do  the  remains  of  stately  oaks  and  well-grown  firs  testify  to  thq 
duration  of  this  condition  of  things,  but  additional  evidence  to 
the  same  effect  is  afforded  by  the  abundant  remains  of  elephants, 
rhinoceroses,  hippopotamuses,  and  other  great  wild  beasts,  which 
it  has  yielded  to  the  zealous  search  of  such  men  as  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Gunn. 

When  you  look  at  such  a  collection  as  he  has  formed,  and  be- 
think you  that  these  elephantine  bones  did  veritably  carry  their 
owners  about,  and  these  great  grinders  crunch,  in  the  dark 
woods  of  which  the  forest-bed  is  now  the  only  trace,  it  is  impos- 
sible not  to  feel  that  they  are  as  good  evidence  of  the  lapse  of 
time  as  the  annual  rings  of  the  tree-stumps. 

Thus  there  is  a  writing  upon  the  wall  of  cliffs  at  Cromer,  and 
whoso  runs  may  read  it.     It  tells  us,  with  an  authority  which 


248  ON  A   PIECE    OF  CHALK 

cannot  be  impeached,  that  the  ancient  sea-bed  of  the  chalk  sea 
was  raised  up,  and  remained  dry  land,  until  it  was  covered  with 
forest,  stocked  with  the  great  game  whose  spoils  have  rejoiced 
your  geologists.  How  long  it  remained  in  that  condition  can- 
not be  said  ;  but  "  the  whirligig  of  time  brought  its  revenges  " 
in  those  days  as  in  these.  That  dry  land,  with  the  bones  and 
teeth  of  generations  of  long-lived  elephants,  hidden  among  the 
gnarled  roots  and  dry  leaves  of  its  ancient  trees,  sank  gradually 
to  the  bottom  of  the  icy  sea,  which  covered  it  with  huge  masses 
of  drift  and  boulder  clay.  Sea-beasts,  such  as  the  walrus,  now 
restricted  to  the  extreme  north,  paddled  about  where  birds  had 
twittered  among  the  topmost  twigs  of  the  fir-trees.  How  long 
this  state  of  things  endured  we  know  not,  but  at  length  it  came 
to  an  end.  The  upheaved  glacial  mud  hardened  into  the  soil  of 
modern  Norfolk.  Forests  grew  once  more,  the  M'olf  and  the 
beaver  replaced  the  reindeer  and  the  elephant ;  and  at  length 
what  we  call  the  history  of  England  dawned. 

Thus  you  have,  within  the  limits  of  your  own  country,  proof 
that  the  chalk  can  justly  claim  a  very  much  greater  antiquity 
than  even  the  oldest  physical  traces  of  mankind.  But  we  may 
go  further  and  demonstrate,  by  evidence  of  the  same  authority 
as  that  which  testifies  to  the  existence  of  the  father  of  men,  that 
the  chalk  is  vastly  older  than  Adam  himself. 

The  Book  of  Genesis  informs  us  ttiat  Adam,  immediately  upon 
his  creation,  and  before  the  appearance  of  Eve,  was  placed  in 
the  Garden  of  Eden.  The  problem  of  the  geographical  position 
of  Eden  has  greatly  vexed  the  spirits  of  the  learned  in  such  mat- 
ters, but  there  is  one  point  respecting  which,  so  far  as  I  know, 
no  commentator  has  ever  raised  a  doubt.  This  is,  that  of  the 
four  rivers,  which  are  said  to  run  out  of  it,  Euphrates  and  Hid- 
dekel  are  identical  with  the  rivers  now  known  by  the  names  of 
Euphrates  and  Tigris. 

But  the  whole  country  in  which  these  mighty  rivers  take  their 
origin,  and  through  which  they  run,  is  composed  of  rocks  which 
are  either  of  the  same  age  as  the  chalk,  or  of  later  date.  So 
that  the  chalk  must  not  only  have  been  formed,  but,  after  its 
formation,  the  time  required  for  the  deposit  of  these  later  rocks, 
and  for  their  upheaval  into  dry  land,  must  have  elapsed,  before 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  249 

the  smallest  brook  which  feeds  the  swift  stream  of  "  the  great 
river,  the  river  of  Babylon,"  began  to  flow. 

Thus,  evidence  which  cannot  be  rebutted,  and  Avhich  need  not 
be  strengthened,  though  if  time  permitted  I  might  indefinitely 
increase  its  quantity,  compels  you  to  believe  that  the  earth,  from 
the  time  of  the  chalk  to  the  present  day,  has  been  the  theatre  of 
a  series  of  changes  as  vast  in  their  amount,  as  they  were  slow  in 
their  progress.  The  area  on  which  we  stand  has  been  first  sea 
and  then  land,  for  at  least  four  alternations  ;  and  has  remained 
in  each  of  these  conditions  for  a  period  of  great  length. 

Nor  have  these  wonderful  metamorphoses  of  sea  into  land, 
and  of  land  into  sea,  been  confined  to  one  corner  of  England. 
During  the  chalk  period,  or  "  cretaceous  epoch,"  not  one  of  the 
present  great  physical  features  of  the  globe  was  in  existence. 
Our  great  mountain  ranges,  Pyrenees,  Alps,  Himalayas,  Andes, 
have  all  been  upheaved  since  the  chalk  was  deposited,  and  the 
cretaceous  sea  flowed  over  the  sites  of  Sinai  and  Ararat. 

All  this  is  certain,  because  rocks  of  cretaceous,  or  still  later, 
date  have  shared  in  the  elevatory  movements  which  gave  rise  to 
these  mountain  chains  ;  and  may  be  found  perched  up,  in  some 
cases,  many  thousand  feet  high  upon  their  flanks.  And  evi- 
dence of  equal  cogency  demonstrates  that,  though,  in  Norfolk, 
the  forest-bed  rests  directly  upon  the  chalk,  yet  it  does  so,  not 
because  the  period  at  which  the  forest  grew  immediately  fol- 
lowed that  at  which  the  chalk  was  formed,  but  because  an  im- 
mense lapse  of  time,  represented  elsewhere  by  thousands  of  feet 
of  rock,  is  not  indicated  at  Cromer. 

I  must  ask  you  to  believe  that  there  is  no  less  conclusive 
proof  that  a  still  more  prolonged  succession  of  similar  changes 
occurred,  before  the  chalk  was  deposited.  Nor  have  we  any 
reason  to  think  that  the  first  term  in  the  series  of  these  changes 
is  known.  The  oldest  sea-beds  preserved  to  us  are  sands,  and 
mud,  and  pebbles,  the  wear  and  tear  of  rocks  which  were  formed 
in  still  older  oceans.  '" 

But,  great  as  is  the  magnitude  of  these  physical  changes  of 
the  world,  they  have  been  accompanied  by  a  no  less  striking 
series  of  modifications  in  its  living  inhabitants. 


250  ON  A   PIECE    OF  CHALK 

All  the  great  classes  of  animals,  beasts  of  the  field,  fowls  of 
the  air,  creeping  things,  and  things  which  dwell  in  the  waters, 
flourished  upon  the  globe  long  ages  before  the  chalk  was  de- 
posited. Very  few,  however,  if  any,  of  these  ancient  forms  of 
animal  life  were  identical  with  those  which  now  live.  Certainly 
not  one  of  the  higher  animals  was  of  the  same  species  as  any  of 
those  now  in  existence.  The  beasts  of  the  field,  in  the  days 
before  the  chalk,  were  not  our  beasts  of  the  field,  nor  the  fowls 
of  the  air  such  as  those  which  the  eye  of  men  has  seen  flying, 
unless  his  antiquity  dates  infinitely  further  back  than  we  at 
present  surmise.  If  we  could  be  carried  back  into  those  times, 
we  should  be  as  one  suddenly  set  down  in  Australia  before  it 
was  colonized.  We  should  see  mammals,  birds,  reptiles,  fishes, 
insects,  snails,  and  the  like,  clearly  recognisable  as  such,  and 
yet  not  one  of  them  would  be  just  the  same  as  those  with  which 
we  are  familiar,  and  many  would  be  extremely  different. 

From  that  time  to  the  present,  the  population  of  the  world  has 
undergone  slow  and  gradual,  but  incessant  changes.  There  has 
been  no  grand  catastrophe  —  no  destroyer  has  swept  away  the 
forms  of  life  of  one  period,  and  replaced  them  by  a  totally  new 
creation  ;  but  one  species  has  vanished  and  another  has  taken 
its  place  ;  creatures  of  one  type  of  structure  have  diminished, 
those  of  another  have  increased,  as  time  passed  on.  And  thus, 
while  the  differences  between  the  living  creatures  of  the  time 
before  the  chalk  and  those  of  the  present  day  appear  startling, 
if  placed  side  by  side,  we  are  led  from  one  to  the  other  by  the 
most  gradual  progress,  if  we  follow  the  course  of  Nature  through 
the  whole  series  of  those  relics  of  her  operations  which  she  has 
left  behind. 

And  it  is  by  the  population  of  the  chalk  sea  that  the  ancient 
and  the  modern  inhabitants  of  the  world  are  most  completely 
connected.  The  groups  which  are  dying  out  flourish,  side  by 
side,  with  the  groups  which  are  nov/  the  dominant  forms  of 
life. 

Thus  the  chalk  contains  remains  of  those  strange  flying  and 
swimming  reptiles,  the  pterodactyl,  the  ichthyosaurus,  and  the 
plesiosaurus,  which  are  found  in  no  later  deposits,  but  abounded 
in  preceding  ages.    The  chambered  shells,  called  ammonites  and 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  25  I 

belemnites,  which  are  so  characteristic  of  the  period  preceding 
the  cretaceous,  in  Hke  manner  die  with  it. 

But,  amongst  these  fading  remainders  of  a  previous  state  of 
things,  are  some  very  modern  forms  of  Ufe,  looking  Hke  Yankee 
pedlars  among  a  tribe  of  Red  Indians.  Crocodiles  of  modern 
type  appear ;  bony  fishes,  many  of  them  very  similar  to  existing 
species,  almost  supplant  the  forms  of  fish  which  predominate 
in  more  ancient  seas  ;  and  many  kinds  of  living  shell-fish  first 
become  known  to  us  in  the  chalk.  The  vegetation  acquires  a 
modern  aspect.  A  few  living  animals  are  not  even  distinguish- 
able as  species,  from  those  which  existed  at  that  remote  epoch. 
The  Globigerina  of  the  present  day,  for  example,  is  not  differ- 
ent specifically  from  that  of  the  chalk ;  and  the  same  may  be 
said  of  many  other  Forami?iifera.  I  think  it  probable  that  criti- 
cal and  unprejudiced  examination  will  show  that  more  than  one 
species  of  much  higher  animals  have  had  a  similar  longevity ; 
but  the  only  example  which  I  can  at  present  give  confidently  is 
the  snake's-head  lamp-shell  {Terebratidina  caput  serpentis),  which 
lives  in  our  English  seas  and  abounded  (as  Terebratidina  striata 
of  authors)  in  the  chalk. 

The  longest  line  of  human  ancestry  must  hide  its  diminished 
head  before  the  pedigree  of  this  insignificant  shell-fish.  We 
Englishmen  are  proud  to  have  an  ancestor  who  was  present  at 
the  Battle  of  Hastings.  The  ancestors  of  Terebratulina  capid 
serpe?ttis  may  have  been  present  at  a  battle  of  Ichthyosauria  in 
that  part  of  the  sea  which,  when  the  chalk  was  forming,  flowed 
over  the  site  of  Hastings.  While  all  around  has  changed,  this 
Terebratidina  has  peacefully  propagated  its  species  from  genera- 
tion to  generation,  and  stands  to  this  day,  as  a  living  testimony  to 
the  continuity  of  the  present  with  the  past  history  of  the  globe. 

Up  to  this  moment  I  have  stated,  so  far  as  I  know,  nothing 
but  well-authenticated  facts,  and  the  immediate  conclusions  which 
they  force  upon  the  mind. 

But  the  mind  is  so  constituted  that  it  does  hot  willingly  rest 
in  facts  and  immediate  causes,  but  seeks  always  after  a  knowledge 
of  the  remoter  links  in  the  chain  of  causation. 

Taking  the  many  changes  of  any  given  spot  of  the  earth's 


252  ON  A   PIECE    OF  CHALK 

surface,  from  sea  to  land  and  from  land  to  sea,  as  an  established 
fact,  we  cannot  refrain  from  asking  ourselves  how  these  changes 
have  occurred.  And  when  we  have  explained  them  —  as  they 
must  be  explained  —  by  the  alternate  slow  movements  of  eleva- 
tion and  depression  which  have  affected  the  crust  of  the  earth, 
we  go  still  further  back,  and  ask.  Why  these  movements  ? 

I  am  not  certain  that  any  one  can  give  you  a  satisfactory 
answer  to  that  question.  Assuredly  I  cannot.  All  that  can  be 
said,  for  certain,  is,  that  such  movements  are  part  of  the  ordinary 
course  of  nature,  inasmuch  as  they  are  going  on  at  the  present 
time.  Direct  proof  may  be  given,  that  some  parts  of  the  land 
of  the  northern  hemisphere  are  at  this  moment  insensibly  rising 
and  others  insensibly  sinking;  and  there  is  indirect,  but  per- 
fectly satisfactory,  proof,  that  an  enormous  area  now  covered  by 
the  Pacific  has  deepened  thousands  of  feet,  since  the  present 
inhabitants  of  that  sea  came  into  existence. 

Thus  there  is  not  a  shadow  of  reason  for  believing  that  the 
physical  changes  of  the  globe,  in  past  times,  have  been  affected 
by  other  than  natural  causes. 

Is  there  any  more  reason  for  believing  that  the  concomitant 
modifications  in  the  forms  of  the  living  inhabitants  of  the  globe 
have  been  brought  about  in  other  ways  ? 

Before  attempting  to  answer  this  question,  let  us  try  to  form  a 
distinct  mental  picture  of  what  has  happened,  in.  some  special  case. 

The  crocodiles  are  animals  which,  as  a  group,  have  a  very 
vast  antiquity. '  They  abounded  ages  before  the  chalk  was 
deposited ;  they  throng  the  rivers,  in  warm  climates,  at  the 
present  day.  There  is  a  difference  in  the  form  of  the  joints 
of  the  back-bone,  and  in  some  minor  particulars,  between  the 
crocodiles  of  the  present  epoch  and  those  which  lived  before 
the  chalk;  but,  in  the  cretaceous  epoch,  as  I  have  already  men- 
tioned, the  crocodiles  had  assumed  the  modern  type  of  structure. 
Notwithstanding  this,  the  crocodiles  of  the  chalk  are  not  iden- 
tically the  same  as  those  which  lived  in  the  times  called  "  older 
tertiary,"  which  succeeded  the  cretaceous  epoch ;  and  the  croco- 
diles of  the  older  tertiaries  are  not  identical  with  those  of  the 
newer  tertiaries,  nor  are  these  identical  with  existing  forms.  I 
leave  open  the  question  whether  particular  species  may  have 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  253 

lived  on  from  epoch  to  epoch.  But  each  epoch  has  had  its 
peculiar  crocodiles  ;  though  all,  since  the  chalk,  have  belonged 
to  the  modern  type,  and  differ  simply  in  their  proportions,  and 
in  such  structural  particulars  as  are  discernible  only  to  trained 
eyes. 

How  is  the  existence  of  this  long  succession  of  different 
species  of  crocodiles  to  be  accounted  for  ? 

Only  two  suppositions  seem  to  be  open  to  us.  —  Either  each 
species  of  crocodile  has  been  specially  created,  or  it  has  arisen 
out  of  some  pre-existing  form  by  the  operation  of  natural 
causes. 

Choose  your  hypothesis  ;  I  have  chosen  mine.  I  can  find  no 
warranty  for  believing  in  the  distinct  creation  of  a  score  of  suc- 
cessive species  of  crocodiles  in  the  course  of  countless  ages  of 
time.  Science  gives  no  countenance  to  such  a  wild  fancy ;  nor 
can  even  the  perverse  ingenuity  of  a  commentator  pretend  to 
discover  this  sense,  in  the  simple  words  in  which  the  writer  of 
Genesis  records  the  proceedings  of  the  fifth  and  sixth  days 
of  the  Creation. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  see  no  good  reason  for  doubting  the 
necessary  alternative,  that  all  these  varied  species  have  been 
evolved  from  pre-existing  crocodilian  forms,  by  the  operation  of 
causes  as  completely  a  part  of  the  common  order  of  nature,  as 
those  which  have  effected  the  changes  of  the  inorganic  world. 

Few  will  venture  to  affirm  that  the  reasoning  which  applies 
to  crocodiles  loses  its  force  among  other  animals,  or  among 
plants.  If  one  series  of  species  has  come  into  existence  by  the 
operation  of  natural  causes,  it  seems  folly  to  deny  that  all  may 
have  arisen  in  the  same  way. 

A  small  beginning  has  led  to  a  great  ending.  If  I  were  to 
put  the  bit  of  chalk  with  which  we  started  into  the  hot  but 
obscure  flame  of  burning  hydrogen,  it  would  presently  shine  like 
the  sun.  It  seems  to  me  that  this  physical  metamorphosis  is  no 
false  image  of  what  has  been  the  result  of  our  subjecting  it  to  a 
jet  of  fervent,  though  nowise  brilliant,  thought  to-night.  It  has 
become  luminous,  and  its  clear  rays,  penetrating  the  abyss  of 
the  remote  past,  have  brought  within  our  ken  some  stages  of  the 
evolution  of  the  earth.     And  in  the  shifting  "  without  haste,  but 


254  GLACIER  ICE 

without  rest  "  of  the  land  and  sea,  as  in  the  endless  variation 
of  the  forms  assumed  by  living  beings,  we  have  observed  nothing 
but  the  natural  product  of  the  forces  originally  possessed  by  the 
substance  of  the  universe. 


GLACIER    ICE 

JOHN  TYNDALL 
[From  lecture  vi  in  Heat  considered  as  a  Mode  of  Motion,  1863.] 

Snow,  perfectly  formed,  is  not  an  irregular  aggregate  of  ice-par- 
ticles ;  in  a  calm  atmosphere,  the  aqueous  atoms  arrange  them- 
selves so  as  to  form  the  most  exquisite  figures.  You  have  seen 
those  six-petalled  flowers  which  form  themselves  within  a  block 
of  ice  when  a  beam  of  heat  is  sent  through  it.  The  snow-crystals, 
formed  in  a  calm  atmosphere,  are  built  upon  the  same  type  :  the 
molecules  arrange  themselves  to  form  hexagonal  stars.  From  a 
central  nucleus  shoot  spiculse,  every  two  of  which  are  separated 
by  an  angle  of  60°.  From  these  central  ribs  smaller  spiculae 
shoot  right  and  left  with  unerring  fidelity  to  the  angle  60°,  and 
from  these  again  other  smaller  ones  diverge  at  the  same  angle. 
The  six-leaved  blossoms  assume  the  most  wonderful  variety  of 
form  ;  their  tracery  is  of  the  finest  frozen  gauze  ;  and  round  about 
their  corners  other  rosettes  of  smaller  dimensions  often  cling. 
Beauty  is  superposed  upon  beauty,  as  if  Nature,  once  committed 
to  her  task,  took  dehght  in  showing,  even  within  the  narrowest 
limits,  the  wealth  of  her  resources. 

These  frozen  blossoms  constitute  our  mountain  snows ;  they 
load  the  Alpine  heights,  where  their  frail  architecture  is  soon  de- 
stroyed by  the  accidents  of  the  weather.  Every  winter  they  fall, 
and  every  summer  they  disappear,  but  this  rhythmic  action  does 
not  perfectly  compensate  itself.  Below  a  certain  line  warmth  is 
predominant,  and  the  quantity  which  falls  every  winter  is  entirely 
swept  away ;  above  this  line  cold  is  predominant,  the  quantity 
which  falls  is  in  excess  of  the  quantity  melted,  and  an  annual  resi- 
due remains.  In  winter  the  snows  reach  to  the  plains  ;  in  summer 
they  retreat  to  the  snow-line,  —  to  that  particular  line  where  the 
snow-fall  of  every  year  is  exactly  balanced  by  the  consumption, 


JOHN   TYNDALL  255 

,and  above  which  is  the  region  of  eternal  snows.  But  if  a  residue 
remains  annually  above  the  snow-line,  the  mountains  must  be 
loaded  with  a  burden  which  increases  every  year.  Supposing  at  a 
particular  point  above  the  line  referred  to,  a  layer  of  three  feet  a 
year  is  added  to  the  mass  ;  this  deposit,  accumulating  even  through 
the  brief  period  of  the  Christian  era,  would  produce  an  elevation 
of  5580  feet.  And  did  such  accumulations  continue  throughout 
geologic  instead  of  historic  ages,  there  is  ho  knowing  the  height  to 
which  the  snows  would  pile  themselves.  It  is  manifest  no  accu- 
mulation of  this  kind  takes  place  ;  the  quantity  of  snow  on  the 
mountains  is  not  augmenting  in  this  way ;  for  some  reason  or 
other  the  sun  is  not  permitted  to  lift  the  ocean  out  of  its  basins 
and  pile  its  waters  permanently  upon  the  hills. 

But  how  is  this  annually  augmenting  load  taken  off  the  shoulders 
of  the  mountains?  The  snows  sometimes  detach  themselves  and 
rush  down  the  slopes  in  avalanches,  melting  to  water  in  the  warmer 
air  below.  But  the  violent  rush  of  the  avalanche  is  not  their  only 
motion  ;  they  also  creep  by  almost  insensible  degrees  down  the 
slopes.  '  As  layer,  moreover,  heaps  itself  upon  layer,  the  deeper 
portions  of  the  mass  become  squeezed  and  consolidated  ;  the  air 
first  entrapped  in  the  meshes  of  the  snow  is  squeezed  out,  and  the 
compressed  mass  approximates  more  and  more  to  the  character  of 
ice.  You  know  how  the  granules  of  a  snowball  will  adhere ;  you 
know  how  hard  you  can  make  it  if  mischievously  inclined  :  the 
snowball  is  incipient  ice ;  augment  your  pressure,  and  you  actu- 
ally convert  it  into  ice.  But  even  after  it  has  attained  a  compact- 
ness which  would  entitle  it  to  be  called  ice,  it  is  still  capable  of 
yielding  more  or  less,  as  the  snow  yields,  to  pressure.  When, 
therefore,  a  sufficient  depth  of  the  substance  collects  upon  the 
earth's  surface,  the  lower  portions  are  squeezed  out  by  the  press- 
ure of  the  upper  ones,  and  if  the  snow  rests  upon  a  slope,  it  will 
yield  principally  in  the  direction  of  the  slope,  and  move  downwards. 

This  motion  is  incessantly  going  on  along  the  slopes  of  every 
snow-laden  mountain  ;  in  the  Himalayas,  in  the  Andes,  in  the 
Alps ;  but  in  addition  to  this  motion,  which  depends  upon  the 
power  of  the  substance  itself  to  yield  to  pressure,  there  is  also 
a  sliding  motion  over  the  inclined  bed.  The  consolidated  snow 
moves  bodily  over  the  mountain  slope,  grinding  off  the  asperities 


256  GLACIER  ICE 

of  the  rocks,  and  polishing  their  hard  surfaces.  The  under  surface 
of  the  mighty  polisher  is  also  scarred  and  furrowed  by  the  rocks 
over  which  it  has  passed  ;  but  as  the  compacted  snow  descends, 
it  enters  a  warmer  region,  is  more  copiously  melted  and  some- 
times, before  the  base  of  its  slope  is  reached,  it  is  wholly  cut  off 
by  fusion.  Sometimes,  however,  large  and  deep  valleys  receive  the 
gelid  masses  thus  sent  down;  in  these  valleys  it  is  further  consoli- 
dated, and  through  them  it  moves,  at  a  slow  but  measurable  pace, 
imitating  in  all  its  motions  those  of  a  river.  The  ice  is  thus 
carried  far  beyond  the  limits  of  perpetual  snow,  until,  at  length,  the 
consumption  below  equals  the  supply  above,  and  at  this  point  the 
glacier  ceases.  From  the  snow-hne  downwards  in  summer,  we 
have  ice ;  above  the  snow-line,  both  summer  and  winter,  we  have, 
on  the  surface,  snoiv.  The  portion  below  the  snow-line  is  called 
a  dacier,  that  above  the  snow-line  is  called  the  neve.  The  neve, 
then,  is  the  feeder  of  the  glacier. 

Several  valleys  thus  filled  may  unite  in  a  single  valley,  the  tribu- 
tary glaciers  welding  themselves  •  together  to  form  a  trunk  glacier. 
Both  the  main  valley  and  its  tributaries  are  often  sinuous,  and  the 
tributaries  must  change  their  direction  to  form  the  trunk.  The 
wrdth  of  the  valley,  also,  often  changes;  the  glacier  is  forced 
through  narrow  gorges,  widening  after  it  has  passed  them ;  the 
centre  df  the  glacier  moves  more  quickly  than  the  sides,  and  the 
■surface  more  quickly  than  the  bottom.  The  point  of  swiftest 
motion  follows  the  same  law  as-  that  observed  in  the  flow  of  rivers, 
changing  from  one  side  of  the  centre  to  the  other,  as  the  flexure 
of  the  valley  changes.  Most  of  the  great  glaciers  in  the  Alps 
have,  in  summer,  a  central  velocity  of  two  feet  a  day.  There  are 
points  on  the  Mer-de-Glace,  opposite  the  Montenvert,  which  have 
a  daily  motion  of  thirty  inches  in  summer,  and  in  winter  have  been 
found  to  move  at  half  this  rate. 

The  power  of  accommodating  itself  to  the  channel  through  which 
it  moves  has  led  eminent  men  to  assume  that  ice  is  viscous  ;  and 
the  phenomena  at  first  s'lght  seem  to  enforce  this  assumption. 
The  glacier  widens,  bends,  and  narrows,  and  its  centre  moves 
more  quickly  than  its  sides ;  a  viscous  rfiass  would  undoubtedly 
do  the  same.  But  the  most  delicate  experiments  on  the  capacity 
of  ice  to  yield  to  strain,  to  stretch  out  like  treacle,  honey'^or  tar. 


JOHN   TYNDALL  257 

have  failed  to  detect  this  stretching  power.  Is  there,  then,  any 
other  physical  quality  to  which  the  power  of  accommodation  pos- 
sessed by  glacier  ice,  may  be  referred? 

Let  us  approach  this  subject  gradually.  We  know  that  vapour 
is  continually  escaping  from  the  free  surface  of  a  liquid ;  that  the 
particles  at  the  surface  attain  their  gaseous  liberty  sooner  than  the 
particles  within  the  hquid ;  it  is  natural  to  expect  a  similar  state 
of  things  with  regard  to  ice ;  that  when  the  temperature  of  a 
mass  of  ice  is  uniformly  augmented,  the  first  particles  to  attain 
liquid  liberty  are  those  at  the  surface  ;  for  here  they  are  entirely 
free,  on  one  side,  from  the  controlling  action  of  the  surrounding 
particles.  Supposing,  then,  two  pieces  of  ice  raised  throughout 
to  32°,  and  melting  at  this  temperature  at  their  surfaces;  what 
may  be  expected  to  take  place  if  we  place  the  liquefying  surfaces 
close  together?  We  thereby  virtually  transfer  these  surfaces  to 
the  centre  of  the  ice,  where  the  motion  of  each  molecule  is  con- 
trolled all  round  by  its  neighbours.  As  might  reasonably  be  ex- 
pected, the  liberty  of  liquidity  at  each  point  where  the  surfaces 
touch  each  other,  is  arrested,  and  the  two  pieces  freeze  together 
at  these  points.  Let  us  make'  the  experiment :  Here  are  two 
masses,  which  I  have  just  cut  asunder  by  a  saw  ;  I  place  their 
flat  surfaces  together ;  half  a  minute's  contact  will  suffice  ;  they 
are  now  frozen  together,  and  by  taking  hold  of  one  of  them  I 
thus  lift  them  both. 

This  is  the  effect  to  which  attention  was  first  directed  by  Mr. 
Faraday  in  June  1850,  and  which  is  now  known  under  the  name 
of  Regelation.  On  a  hot  summer's  day,  I  have  gone  into  a  shop 
in  the  Strand  where  fragments  of  ice  were  exposed  in  a  basin  in 
the  window  ;  and  with  the  shopman's  permission  have  laid  hold 
of  the  topmost  piece  of  ice,  and  by  means  of  it  have  lifted  the 
whole  of  the  pieces  bodily  out  of  the  dish.  Though  the  ther- 
mometer at  the  time  stood  at  80°,  the  pieces  of  ice  had  frozen 
together  at  their  points  of  junction.  Even  under  hot  water  this 
effect  takes  place  ;  I  have  here  a  basin  of  water  as  hot  as  my  hand 
can  bear ;  I  plunge  into  it  these  two  pieces  of  ice,  and  hold  them 
together  for  a  moment :  they  are  now  frozen  together,  notwith- 
standing the  presence  of  the  heated  liquid.  A  pretty  experiment 
of  Mr.  Faraday's  is  to  place  a  number  of  small  fragments  of  ice 
s 


25 S  GLACIER  ICE 

in  a  dish  of  water  deep  enough  to  float  them.  When  one  piece 
touches  the  other,  if  only  at  a  single  point,  regelation  instantly 
sets  in.  Thus  a  train  of  pieces  may  be  caused  to  touch  each 
other,  and,  after  they  have  once  so  touched,  you  may  take  the 
terminal  piece  of  the  train,  and,  by  means  of  it,  draw  all  the 
others  after  it.  When  we  seek  to  bend  two  pieces  thus  united  at 
their  point  of  junction,  the  frozen  points  suddenly  separate  by 
fracture,  but  at  the  same  moment  other  points  come  into  contact, 
and  regelation  sets  in  between  them.  Thus  a  wheel  of  ice  might 
be  caused  to  roll  on  an  icy  surface,  the  contacts  being  incessantly 
ruptured,  with  a  crackling  noise,  and  others  as  quickly  established 
by  regelation.  In  virtue  of  this  property  of  regelation,  ice  is  able 
to  reproduce  many  of  the  phenomena  which  are  usually  ascribed 
to  viscous  bodies. 

Here,  for  example,  is  a  straight  bar  of  ice  :  I  can  by  passing  it 
successively  through  a  series  of  moulds,  each  more  curved  than 
the  last,  finally  turn  it  out  as  a  semi-ring.  The  straight  bar  in 
being  squeezed  into  the  curved  mould  breaks,  but  by  continuing 
the  pressure  new  surfaces  come  into  contact,  and  the  continuity 
of  the  mass  is  restored.  I  take  a  handful  of  those  small  ice  frag- 
ments and  squeeze  them  together,  tl\ey  freeze  at  their  points  of 
contact  and  now  the  mass  is  one  aggregate.  The  making  of  a 
snowball,  as  remarked  by  Mr.  Faraday,  illustrates  the  same  prin- 
ciple. In  order  that  this  freezing  shall  take  place,  the  snow  ought 
to  be  at  32°  and  moist.  When  below  32°  and  dry,  on  being 
squeezed  it  behaves  like  salt.  The  crossing  of  snow  bridges  in 
the  upper  regions  of  the  Swiss  glaciers  is  often  rendered  possible 
solely  by  the  regelation  of  the  snow  granules.  The  climber  treads 
the  mass  carefully,  and  causes  its  granules  to  regelate  :  he  thus 
obtains  an  amount  of  rigidity  which,  without  the  act  of  regelation, 
would  be  quite  unattainable.  To  those  accustomed  to  such  work, 
the  crossing  of  snow  bridges,  spanning,  as  they  often  do,  fissures 
100  feet  and  more  in  depth,  must  appear  quite  appalling. 

If  I  still  further  squeeze  this  mass  of  ice  fragments,  I  bring  them 
into  still  closer  proximity.  My  hand,  however,  is  incompetent  to 
squeeze  them  very  closely  together.  I  place  them  in  this  boxwood 
mould,  which  is  a  shallow  cylinder,  and  placing  a  flat  piece  of  box- 
wood overhead,  I  introduce  both  between  the  plates  of  a  small 


JOHN  TYNDALL  259 

hydraulic  press,  and  squeeze  the  mass  forcibly  into  the  mould.  I 
now  reheve  the  pressure  and  turn  the  substance  out  before  you  : 
it  is  converted  into  a  coherent  cake  of  ice.  I  place  it  in  this 
lenticular  cavity  and  again  squeeze  it.  It  is  crushed  by  the  press- 
ure, of  course,  but  new  contacts  establish  themselves,  and  there 
you  have  the  mass  a  lens  of  ice.  I  now  transfer  my  lens  to  this 
hemispherical  cavity,  and  bring  down  upon  it  a  hemispherical  pro- 
tuberance, which  is  not  quite  able  to  fill  the  cavity.  I  squeeze  the 
mass ;  the  ice,  which  a  moment  ago  was  a  lens,  is  now  squeezed 
into  the  space  between  the  two  spherical  surfaces  :  I  remove  the 
protuberance,  and  here  I  have  the  interior  surface  of  a  cup  of 
glassy  ice.  By  care  I  release  it  from  the  mould,  and  there  it  is, 
a  hemispherical  cup,  which  I  can  fill  with  cold  sherry,  without  the 
escape  of  a  drop.  I  scrape  with  a  chisel  a  quantity  of  ice  from  this 
block,  and  placing  the  spongy  mass  within  this  spherical  cavity,  I 
squeeze  it  and  add  to  it,  till  finally  I  can  bring  down  another 
spherical  cavity  upon  it,  enclosing  it  as  a  sphere  between  both. 
As  I  work  the  press  the  mass  becomes  more  and  more  compacted. 
I  add  more  material,  and  again  squeeze  ;  by  every  such  act  the 
mass  is  made  harder,  and  there  you  have  a  snow-ball  before  you 
such  as  you  never  saw  before.  It  is  a  sphere  of  hard  translucent 
ice.  Thus,  you  see,  broken  ice  can  be  compacted  together  by 
pressure,  and  in  virtue  of  the  property  of  regelation,  which  cements 
its  touching  surfaces,  the  substance  may  be  made  to  take  any 
shape  we  please.  Were  the  experiment  worth  the  trouble,  I  feel 
satisfied  that  I  could  form  a  rope  of  ice  from  this  block,  and  after- 
wards coil  the  rope  into  a  knot.  Nothing  of  course  can  be  easier 
than  to  produce  statuettes  of  the  substance  from  suitable  moulds. 
It  is  easy  to  understand  how  a  substance  so  endowed  can  be 
squeezed  through  the  gorges  of  the  Alps  —  can  bend  so  as  to 
accommodate  itself  to  the  flexures  of  the  Alpine  valleys,  and  can 
permit  of  a  differential  motion  of  its  parts,  without  at  the  same 
time  possessing  a  sensible  trace  of  viscosity.  The  hypothesis  of 
viscosity,  first  started  by  Rendo,  and  worked  out  with  such  ability 
by  Prof.  Forbes,  accounts,  certainly,  for  half  the  facts.  Where 
pressure  comes  into  play,  the  deportment  of  ice  is  apparently  that 
of  a  viscous  body  ;  where  tension  comes  into  play,  the  analogy 
with  a  viscous  body  ceases. 


26o  LEARNED    WORDS  AND  POPULAR    WORDS 

LEARNED    WORDS    AND    POPULAR 

WORDS 

JAMES   BRADSTREET   GREENOUGH   AND   GEORGE   LYMAN 

KITTREDGE 

[Chapter  3  of  Words  and  their  Ways  in  English  Speech,  1901.] 

In  every  cultivated  language  there  are  two  great  classes  of  words 
which,  taken  together,  comprise  the  whole  vocabulary.  First, 
there  are  those  words  with  which  we  become  acquainted  in  ordi- 
nary conversation, — which  we  learn,  that  is  to  say,  from  the  members 
of  our  own  family  and  from  our  familiar  associates,  and  which  we 
should  know  and  use  even  if  we  could  not  read  or  write.  They 
concern  the  common  things  of  life,  and  are  the  stock  in  trade  of 
all  who  speak  the  language.  Such  words  maybe  called  "  popular," 
since  they  belong  to  the  people  at  large  and  are  not  the  exclusive 
possession  of  a  limited  class. 

On  the  other  hand,  our  language  includes  a  multitude  of  words 
which  are  comparatively  seldom  used  in  ordinary  conversation. 
Their  meanings  are  known  to  every  educated  person,  but  there  is 
little  occasion  to  employ  them  at  home  or  in  the  market-place. 
Our  first  acquaintance  with  them  comes  not  from  our  mother's 
lips  or  from  the  talk  of  our  schoolmates,  but  from  books  that  we 
read,  lectures  that  we  hear,  or  the  more  formal  conversation  of 
highly  educated  speakers,  who  are  discussing  some  particular  topic 
in  a  style  appropriately  elevated  above  the  habitual  level  of  every- 
day life.  Such  words  are  called  "  learned,"  and  the  distinction 
between  them  and  "  popular  "  words  is  of  great  importance  to  a 
right  understanding  of  linguistic  process. 

The  difference  between  popular  and  learned  words  may  be 
easily  seen  in  a  few  examples.  We  may  describe  a  girl  as  "  lively  " 
or  as  "vivacious."  In  the  first  case,  we  are  using  a  native  Eng- 
lish formation  from  the  familiar  noun  life.  In  the  latter,  we  are 
using  a  Latin  derivative  which  has  precisely  the  same  meaning. 
Yet  the  atmosphere  of  the  two  words  is  quite  different.  No  one 
ever  got  the  adjective  lively  out  of  a  book.  It  is  a  part  of  every- 
body's vocabulary.     We  cannot  remember  a  time  when  we  did 


GREENOUGH  AND   KITTREDGE  261 

not  know  it,  and  we  feel  sure  that  we  learned  it  long  before  we 
were  able  to  read.  On  the  other  hand,  we  must  have  passed 
several  years  of  our  lives  before  learning  the  word  vivacious.  We 
may  even  remember  the  first  time  that  we  saw  it  in  print  or  heard 
it  from  some  grown-up  friend  who  was  talking  over  our  childish 
heads.  Both  lively  and  vivacious  are  good  English  words,  but 
lively  is  "  popular  "  and  vivacious  is  "  learned." 

From  the  same  point  of  view  we  may  contrast  the  following  pairs 
of  synonyms:^  the  same,  identical;  speech,  oration;  fire,  co?i- 
flagration ;  choose,  select;  brave,  7)alorous ;  swallowing,  degluti- 
tion; striking,  percussion  ;  building,  edifice ;  shady,  umbrageous ; 
puckery,  astringent;  lear?ied,  erudite;  secret,  cryptic;  destroy, 
annihilate;  stiff,  rigid ;  flabby,  flaccid;  queer,  eccentric;  behead, 
decapitate ;  round,  circular;  thin,  emaciated;  fat,  corpulent; 
truthful,  veracious;  try,  endeavor;  bit,  modicum;  piece,  frag- 
mefit ;  sharp,  acute;  crazy,  nianiacal ;  king,  sovereigfi ;  book, 
volume;  lying,  mendacious;  beggar,  mendicajit ;  teacher,  instruc- 
tor; play,  drama;  air,  atmosphet-c ;  paint,  pigment. 

The  terms  "popular"  and  "learned,"  as  applied  to  words,  are 
not  absolute  definitions.  No  two  persons  have  the  same  stock  of 
words,  and  the  same  word  may  be  "  popular "  in  one  man's 
vocabulary  and  "  learned  "  in  another's.-  There  are  also  different 
grades  of  "  popularity  "  ;  indeed  there  is  in  reality  a  continuous 
gradation  from  infantile  words  like  mamma  and  papa  to  such  erudite 
derivatives  as  concatenation  and  cataclysm.  Still,  the  division  into 
"  learned  "  and  "  popular  "  is  convenient  and  sound.  Disputes 
may  arise  as  to  the  classification  of  any  particular  word,  but  there 
can  be  no  difference  of  opinion  about  the  general  principle.  We 
must  be  careful,  however,  to  avoid  misconception.  When  we  call 
a  word  "  popular,"  we  do  not  mean  that  it  is  a  favorite  word,  but 
simply  that  it  belongs  to  the  people  as  a  whole,  —  that  is,  it  is 
everybody's  word,  not  the  possession  of  a  limited  number.     When 

1  Not  all  the  words  are  exact  synonyms,  but  that  is  of  no  importance  in  the 
present  discussion. 

2  It  is  instructive  to  study  one's  own  vocabulary  from  this  point  of  view,  —  mak- 
ing a  list  of  (i)  those  words  which  we  feel  sure  we  learned  in  childhood,  (2)  those 
which  we  have  learned  in  later  life,  but  not  from  books,  (3)  those  which  have 
entered  our  vocabulary  from  books.  We  shall  also  find  it  useful  to  consider  the 
difference  between  our  reading  vocabulary  and  our  speaking  vocabulary. 


262  LEARNED    WORDS  AND  POPULAR    WORDS 

we  call  a  word  "learned,"  we  do  not  mean  that  it  is  used  by 
scholars  alone,  but  simply  that  its  presence  in  the  English  vocabu- 
lary is  due  to  books  and  the  cultivation  of  literature  rather  than 
to  the  actual  needs  of  ordinary  conversation. 

Here  is  one  of  the  main  differences  between  a  cultivated 
and  an  uncultivated  language.  Both  possess  a  large  stock  of 
"  popular "  words ;  but  the  cultivated  language  is  also  rich  in 
"  learned  "  words,  with  which  the  ruder  tongue  has  not  provided 
itself,  simply  because  it  has  never  felt  the  need  of  them. 

In  English  it  \vill  usually  be  found  that  the  so-called  learned 
words  are  of  foreign  origin.  Most  of  them  are  derived  from 
French  or  Latin,  and  a  considerable  number  from  Greek.  The 
reason  is  obvious.  The  development  of  English  literature  has 
not  been  isolated,  but  has  taken  place  in  close  connection  with 
the  earnest  study  of  foreign  literatures.  Thus,  in  the  fourteenth 
century,  when  our  language  was  assuming  substantially  the  shape 
which  it  now  bears,  the  literary  exponent  of  English  hfe  and 
^  thought,  Geoffrey  Chaucer,  the  first  of  our  great  poets,  was  pro- 
foundly influenced  by  Latin  literature  as  well  as  by  that  of  France 
and  Italy.  In  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries,  the  Greek 
and  Latin  classics  were  vigorously  studied  by  almost  every  English 
writer  of  any  consequence,  and  the  great  authors  of  antiquity 
were  regarded  as  models,  not  merely  of  general  literary  form,  but 
of  expression  in  all  its  details.  These  foreign  influences  have 
varied  much  jn  character  and  intensity.  But  it  is  safe  to  say  that 
there  has  been  no  time  since  1350  when  English  writers  of  the 
highest  class  have  not  looked  to  Latin,  French,  and  Italian 
authors  for  guidance  and  inspiration.  From  1600  to  the  present 
day  the  direct  influence  of  Greek  Hterature  and  philosophy  has 
also  been  enormous,  —  affecting  as  it  has  the  finest  spirits  in  a 
pecuHarly  pervasive  way,  —  and  its  indirect  influence  is  quite 
beyond  calculation.  Greek  civihzation,  we  should  remember, 
has  acted  upon  us,  not  merely  through  Greek  literature  and  art, 
but  also  through  the  medium  of  Latin,  since  the  Romans  borrowed 
their  higher  culture  from  Greece. 

Now  certain  facts  in  the  history  of  our  language  have  made  it 
peculiarly  inclined  to  borrow  from  French  and  Latin.  The  Nor- 
man Conquest  in  the  eleventh  century  made  French  the  language 


GREENOUGH  AND  KITTREDGE  ■     263 

of  polite  society  in  England  ;  and,  long  after  the  contact  between 
Norman-French  and  English  had  ceased  to  be  of  direct  signifi- 
cance in  our  linguistic  development,  the  reading  and  speaking  of 
French  and  the  study  of  French  literature  formed  an  important 
part  of  the  education  of  English-speaking  men  and  women. 
When  literary  English  was  in  process  of  formation  in  the  four- 
teenth and  fifteenth  centuries,  the  authors  whose  works  deter- 
mined the  cultivated  vocabulary  were  almost  as  familiar  with 
French  as  with  their  mother  tongue,  and  it  was  therefore  natural 
that  they  should  borrow  a  good  many  French  words.  But  these 
same  authors  were  also  familiar  with  Latin,  which,  though  called 
a  dead  language,  has  always  been  the  professional  dialect  of  eccle- 
siastics and  a  lingua  franca  for  educated  men.  Thus  the  borrow- 
ing from  French  and  from  Latin  went  on  side  by  side,  and  it  is 
often  impossible  to  say  from  which  of  the  two  languages  a  par- 
ticular English  word  is  taken.  The  practice  of  naturalizing 
French  and  Latin  words  was,  then,  firmly  established  in  the  four- 
teenth century,  and  when,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  there  was  a 
great  revival  of  Greek  studies  in  England,  the  close  literary  re- 
lations between  Greece  and  Rome  facilitated  the  adoption  of 
a  considerable  number  of  words  from  the  Greek.  Linguistic 
processes  are  cumulative  :  one  does  not  stop  when  another  begins. 
Hence  we  find  all  of  these  influences  active  in  increasing  the 
modern  vocabulary.  In  particular,  the  language  of  science  has 
looked  to  Greece  for  its  terms,  as  the  language  of  abstract  thought 
has  drawn  its  nomenclature  from  Latin. 

It  would,  however,  be  a  great  mistake  to  suppose  that  all  our 
"  popular  "  terms  are  of  native  origin,  and  that  all  foreign  deriva- 
tives are  "  learned."  The  younger  and  less  cultivated  members 
of  a  community  are  naturally  inclined  to  imitate  the  speech  of  the 
older  and  more  cultivated.  Hence,  as  time  has  passed,  a  great  num- 
ber of  French  and  Latin  words,  and  even  some  that  are  derived  from 
the  Greek,  have  made  themselves  quite  at  home  in  ordinary  con- 
versation. Such  words,  whatever  their  origin,  are  as  truly  popular 
as  if  they  had  been  a  part  of  our  language  from  the  earliest  period. 

Examples  of  such  popular '  words  of  foreign  derivation  are  the 
following  :  — 

1  The  exact  grade  of  "  popularity  "  differs  in  these  examples. 


264  LEARNED    WORDS  AND  POPULAR    WORDS 

From  French  :  army,  arrest,  bay,  card,  catch,  city,  chase,  chim- 
ney, conveya7ice,  deceive,  efitry,  engine,  forge,  hour,  letter,  mantle, 
mason,  merchant,  manner,  mountain,  map,  jnove,  navy,  prince,  pen, 
pencil,  parlor,  river,  rage,  soldier,  second,  table,  veil,  village. 

From  Latin  :  accommodate,  act,  add,  adopt,  animal,  anxious, 
applause,  arbitrate,  auction,  agent,  calculate,  cancer,  circus, 
collapse,  collision,  column,  congress,  comiect,  consequence,  con- 
tract, contradict,  correct,  creation,  cucumber,  curve,  centen-  ■ 
nial,  decorate,  delicate,  dentist,  describe,  diary,  diffide?it,  different, 
digest,  direct,  discuss,  divide,  educate,  elect,  emigrant,  equal,  erect, 
expect,  extra,  fact,  genius,  genuine,  graduate,  gratis,  horrid,  imitate, 
item,  joke,  jujiction,  junior,  major,  magnificent,  medicine,  mediiun, 
miser,  obstinate,  omit,  pagan,  pastor,  pauper,  pedal,  pendulum,  per- 
mit, picture,  plague,  postpone,  premium,  prevent,  prospect,  protect, 
quiet,  recess,  recipe,  reduce,  regular,  salute,  secure,  series,  single, 
species,  specimen,  splendid,  strict,  student,  subscribe,  subtract,  suburb, 
suffocate,  suggest,  tedious,  timid,  urge,  vaccinate,  variotis,  ventilation, 
vest,  veto,  victor,  vitn,  vote. 

From  Greek  :  anthracite,  apathy,  arsenic,  aster,  athlete,  atlas, 
attic,  baj^orneter,  biography,  calomel,  catarrh,  catholic,  catastrophe, 
catechism,  caustic,  chemist,  crisis,  dialogue,, diphtheria,  dastic,  ency- 
clopedia, hector,  homeopathy,  iodine,  lexicon,  microscope,  monoto- 
nous, myth,  neuralgia,  panic,  panorama,  photograph;  skeleton, 
strychnine,  tactics,  telegraph,  tonic,  zoology. 

No  language  can  borrow  extensively  from  foreign  sources  with- 
out losing  a  good  many  words  of  its  own.  Hence,  if  we  compare 
the  oldest  form  of  English  (Anglo-Saxon)  with  our  modern  speech, 
we  shall  discover  that  many  words  that  were  common  in  Anglo- 
Saxon  have  gone  quite  out  of  use,  being  replaced  by  their  foreign 
equivalents.  The  "  learned  "  word  has  driven  out  the  "  popular  " 
word,  and  has  thereupon,  in  many  cases,  become  "  popular  "  itself. 
Thus  instead  of  A.S.  here  we  use  the  French  word  army ;  instead 
of  thegn  or  theoia,  the  French  word  servant;  instead  of  sciphere 
(a  compound  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  word  for  ship  and  that  for  army), 
we  use  navy ;  instead  of  micel,  we  say  large ;  instead  of  sige,  vic- 
tory ;  instead  of  sw'itlie,  very  ;  instead  of  Idf,  we  say  remainder  or 
remnant,  —  and  so  on. 

Curiously  enough,  it  sometimes  happens  that  when  both  the 


GREENOUGH  AND  KITTREDGE  26$ 

native  and  the  foreign  word  still  have  a  place  in  our  language,  the 
latter  has  become  the  more  popular,  —  the  former  being  relegated 
to  the  higher  or  poetical  style.  Thus  it  is  more  natural  for  us  to 
say  divide  (from  L.  divido)  than  cleave  (from  A.S.  cleofati)  ; 
travel  than /<:?;■<?,•  ^  river  than  strea?n ;  castle  than  burg;  resi- 
dejice  than  divelling ;  j-emain  than  abide  ;  expect  than  ween  ;  pupil 
ox  scholar  than  learner;  destruction  than  bale ;  p7-otect  or  defend 
than  shield;  immediately  than  straightway  ;  encourage  than  hearteri; 
present  than  bestow  ;  Jinn  than  steadfast;  direct  than  forthright; 
impetuous  than  heady  ;  modest  than  shamefaced ;  prince  than  athe- 
ling  ;  noise  or  tumult  or  disturbance  than  din  ;  people  than  folk  ; 
prophet  than  soothsayer ;  fate  than  weird;  lancer  than  spear- 
man  ;  I  ititend  than  /  «:;«  minded ;  excavate  than  </i?/z'^  ,•  resist 
than  withstand;  beautiful  than  goodly  ;  gracious  than  kindly.  The 
very  fact  that  the  native  words  belong  to  the  older  stock  has 
made  them  poetical ;  for  the  language  of  poetry  is  always  more 
archaic  than  that  of  prose. 

Frequently  we  have  kept  both  the  native  and  the  foreign  word, 
but  in  different  senses,  thus  increasing  our  vocabulary  to  good 
purpose.  The  foreign  word  may  be  more  emphatic  than  the 
native:  as  in  brilliant,  bright ;  scintillate,  sparkle;  astonishment, 
wonder;  a  conflagration,  a  fire;  devour,  eat  up;  labor,  zvork. 
Or  the  native  word  may  be  more  emphatic  than  the  foreign  :  as 
in  stench,  odor  ;  straightforward,  direct ;  dead,  deceased ;  nwrder, 
homicide.  Often,  however,  there  is  a  wide  distinction  in  meaning. 
Thus  r/riWr  differs  {xo\n  propeller  ;  child  ixoxx\  infant ;  history  ixova 
tale  ;  book  from  volume  ;  forehead  from  front;  length  from  longi- 
tude;  moo?iy  from  lunar;  sunny  from  solar;  nightly  from  noc- 
turnal; churl  ixovis.  villain  ;  wretch  from  miser  ;  poor  man  from 
pauper ;  run  across  from  occur ;  run  into  from  incur ;  fight  from 
debate. 

From  time  to  time  attempts  have  been  made  to  oust  foreign 
words  from  our  vocabulary  and  to  replace  them  by  native  words 
that  have  become  either  obsolete  or  less  usual  (that  is  to  say,  less 
popular).  Whimsical  theorists  have  even  set  up  the  principle 
that  no  word  of  foreign  origin  should  be  employed  when  a  native 

1  Fare  is  still  common  as  a  noun  and  in  figurative  senses. 

2  l')Ut  the  irregular  plural /bZ/ij  is  a  common  colloquialism. 


266     .      LEARNED    WORDS  AND  POPULAR    WORDS 

word  of  the  same  meaning  exists.  In  English,  however,  all  such 
efforts  are  predestined  to  failure.  They  result,  not  in  a  simpler 
and  more  natural  style,  but  in  something  unfamiliar,  fantastic,  and 
affected.  Foreign  words  that  have  long  been  in  common  use  are 
just  as  much  English  as  if  they  had  been  a  part  of  our  language 
from  the  beginning.  There  is  no  rational  theory  on  which  they 
should  be  shunned.  It  would  be  just  as  reasonable  for  an  English- 
man whose  ancestors  had  lived  in  the  island  ever  since  the  time 
of  King  Alfred,  to  disown  as  his  countrymen  the  descendants  of  a 
Frenchman  or  a  German  who  settled  there  three  hundred  years 
ago.  The  test  of  the  learned  or  the  popular  character  of  a  word 
is  not  its  etymology,  but  the  facts  relating  to  its  habitual  employ- 
ment by  plain  speakers.  Nor  is  there  any  principle  on  which,  of 
two  expressions,  that  which  is  popular  should  be  preferred  to  that 
which  is  learned  or  less  familiar.  The  sole  criterion  of  choice  con- 
sists in  the  appropriateness  of  one's  language  to  the  subject  or 
the  occasion.  It  would  be  ridiculous  to  address  a  crowd  of  soldiers 
in  the  same  language  that  one  would  employ  in  a  council  of  war. 
It  would  be  no  less  ridiculous  to  harangue  an  assembly  of  generals 
as  if  they  were  a  regiment  on  the  eve  of  battle.  The  reaction 
against  the  excessive  Latinization  of  English  is  a  wholesome  ten- 
dency, but  it  becomes  a  mere  "  fad  "  when  it  is  carried  out  in  a 
doctrinau'e  manner.     As  Chaucer  declares  :  — 

"  Ek  Plato  seith,  whoso  that  can  him  rede, 
'  The  wordes  mot  be  cosin  to  the  dede.' " 

Every  educated  person  has  at  least  two  ways  of  speaking  his 
■mother  tongue.  The  first  is  that  which  he  employs  in  his  family, 
among  his  familiar  friends,  and  on  ordinary  occasions.  The  sec-^ 
ond  is  that  which  he  uses  in  discoursing  on  more  complicated 
subjects,  and  in  addressing  persons  with  whom  he  is  less  intim/tely 
acquainted.  It  is,  in  short,  the  language  which  he  employs  when 
he  is  "  on  his  dignity,"  as  he  puts  on  evening  dress  when  he  is 
going  to  dine.  The  difference  between  these  two  forms  of  lan- 
guage consists,  in  great  measure,  in  a  difference  of  vocabulary. 
The  basis  of  familiar  words  must  be  the  same  in  both,  but  the 
vocabulary  appropriate  to  the  more  formal  occasion  will  include 
many  terms  which  would  be  stilted  or  affected  in  ordinary  talk. 


GREENOUGH  AND  KITTREDGE  267 

There  is  also  considerable  difference  between  familiar  and  digni- 
fied language  in  the  manner  of  utterance.  Contrast  the  rapid 
utterance  of  our  everyday  dialect,  full  of  contractions  and  clipped 
forms,  with  the  more  distinct  enunciation  of  the  pulpit  or  the 
platform.  Thus,  in  conversation,  we  habitually  employ  such  con- 
tractions as  /'//,  don't,  won't,  it's,  lue'd,  he'd,  and  the  like,  which 
we  should  never  use  in  public  speaking,  unless  of  set  purpose,  to 
give  a  markedly  colloquial  tinge  to  what  we  have  to  say. 


SWEETNESS    AND    LIGHT 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD 
[Chapter  i  of  Culttcre  and  Anarchy,  1869.] 

The  disparagers  of  culture  make  its  motive  curiosity ;  some- 
times, indeed,  they  make  its  motive  mere  exclusiveness  and  vanity. 
The  culture  which  is  supposed  to  plume  itself  on  a  s-mattering 
of  Greek  and  Latin  is  a  culture  which  is  begotten  by  nothing  so 
intellectual  as  curiosity ;  it  is  valued  either  out  of  sheer  vanity 
and  ignorance  or  else  as  an  engine  of  social  and  class  distinc- 
tion, separating  its  holder,  like  a  badge  or  title,  from  other 
people  who  have  not  got  it.  No  serious  man  would  call  this 
culture,  or  attach  any  value  to  it,  as  culture,  at  all.  To  find  the 
real  ground  for  the  very  different  estimate  which  serious  people 
will  set  upon  culture,  we  must  find  some  motive  for  culture  in  the 
terms  of  which  may  lie  a  real  ambiguity ;  and  such  a  motive  the 
A^ord  curiosity  gives  us. 

I  have  before  now  pointed  out  that  we  English  do  not,  like  the 
foreigners,  use  this  word  in  a  good  sense  as  well  as  in  a  bad. 
sense.  With  us  the  word  is  always  used  in  a  somewhat  disapprov- 
ing sense.  A  liberal  and  intelligent  eagerness  about  the  things 
of  the  mind  may.be  meant  by  a  foreigner  when  he  speaks  of  curi- 
osity, but  with  us  the  word  always  conveys  a  certain  notion  of 
frivolous  and  unedifying  activity.  In  the  Quarterly  Review, 
some  little  time  ago,  was  an  estimate  of  the  celebrated  French 
critic,  M.  Sainte-Beuve,  and  a  very  inadequate  estimate  it  in  my 
judgment  was.  And  its  inadequacy  consisted  chiefly  in  this  :  that 


268  SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT 

in  our  English  way  it  left  out  of  sight  the  double  sense  really 
involved  in  the  word  curiosity^  thinking  enough  was  said  to  stamp 
M.  Sainte-Beuve  with  blame  if  it  was  said  that  he  was  impelled  in 
his  operations  as  a  critic  by  curiosit)^,  and  omitting  either  to  per- 
ceive that  M.  Sainte-Beuve  himself,  and  many  other  people  with 
him,  would  consider  that  this  was  praiseworthy  and  not  blame- 
worthy, or  to  point  out  why  it  ought  really  to  be  accounted  worthy 
of  blame  and  not  of  praise.  For  as  there  is  a  curiosity  about 
intellectual  matters  which  is  futile,  and  merely  a  disease,  so 
there  is  certainly  a  curiosity,  —  a  desire  after  the  things  of  the 
mind  simply  for  their  own  sakes  and  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
them  as  they  are,  —  which  is,  in  an  intelligent  being,  natural  and 
laudable.  Nay,  and  the  very  desire  to  see  things  as  they  are 
implies  a  balance  and  regulation  of  mind  which  is  not  often 
attained  without  fruitful  effort,  and  which  is  the  very  opposite 
of  the  blind  and  diseased  impulse  of  mind  which  is  what  we 
mean  to  blame  when  we  blame  curiosity.  Montesquieu  says  : 
"  The  first  motive  which  ought  to  impel  us  to  study  is  the  desire 
to  augment  the  excellence  of  our  nature,  and  to  render  an  intel- 
ligent being  yet  more  intelligent."  This  is  the  true  ground  to 
assign  for  the  genuine  scientific  passion,  however  manifested, 
and  for  culture,  viewed  simply  as  a  fruit  of  this  passion ;  and 
it  is  a  worthy  ground,  even  though  we  let  the  term  curiosity 
stand  to  describe  it. 

But  there  is  of  culture  another  view,  in  which  not  solely  the 
scientific  passion,  the  sheer  desire  to  see  things  as  they  are, 
natural  and  proper  in  an  intelligent  being,  appears  as  the  ground 
of  it.  There  is  a  view  in  which  all  the  love  of  our  neighbour, 
the  impulses  towards  action,  help,  and  beneficence,  the  desire  for 
removing  human  error,  clearing  human  confusion,  and  diminish- 
ing human  misery,  the  noble  aspiration  to  leave  the  world  better 
and  happier  than  we  found  it,  —  motives  eminently  such  as  are 
called  social,  —  come  in  as  part  of  the  grounds  of  culture, 
and  the  main  and  pre-eminent  part.  Culture  is  then  properly 
described  not  as  having  its  origin  in  curiosity,  but  as  having  its 
origin  in  the  love  of  perfection  ;  it  is  (t;  study  of  perfection.  It 
moves  by  the  force,  not  merely  or  primarily  of  the  scientific 
passion  for  pure  knowledge,  but  also  of  the  moral  and  social 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  269 

passion  for  doing  good.  As,  in  the  first  view  of  it,  we  took  for 
its  worthy  motto  Montesquieu's  words  :  "  To  render  an  intelU- 
gent  being  yet  more  intelligent !  "  so,  in  the  second  view  of  it, 
there  is  no  better  motto  which  it  can  have  than  these  words 
of  Bishop  Wilson :  "  To  make  reason  and  the  will  of  God 
prevail !  " 

Only,  whereas  the  passion  for  doing  good  is  apt  to  be  over- 
hasty  in  determining  what  reason  and  the  will  of  God  say, 
because  its  turn  is  for  acting  rather  than  thinking  and  it  wants 
to  be  beginning  to  act ;.  and  whereas  it  is  apt  to  take  its  own 
conceptions,  which  proceed  from  its  own  state  of  development 
and  share  in  all  the  imperfections  and  immaturities  of  this,  for  a 
basis  of  action  ;  what  distinguishes  culture  is,  that  it  is  possessed 
by  the  scientific  passion  as  well  as  by  the  passion  of  doing 
good ;  that  it  demands  worthy  notions  of  reason  and  the  will  of 
God,  and  does  not  readily  suffer  its  own  crude  conceptions  to 
substitute  themselves  for  them.  And  knowing  that  no  action  or 
institution  can  be  salutary  and  stable  which  is  not  based  on 
reason  and  the  will  of  God,  it  is  not  so  bent  on  acting  and  insti- 
tuting, even  with  the  great  aim  of  diminishing  human  error  and 
misery  ever  before  its  thoughts,  but  that  it  can  remember  that 
acting  and  instituting  are  of  little  use,  unless  we  know  how  and 
what  we  ought  to  act  and  to  institute. 

This  culture  is  more  interesting  and  more  far-reaching  than 
that  other,  which  is  founded  solely  on  the  scientific  passion  for 
knowing.  But  it  needs  times  of  faith  and  ardour,  times  when 
the  intellectual  horizon  is  opening  and  widening  all  round  us, 
to  flourish  in.  And  is  not  the  close  and  bounded  intellectual 
horizon  in  which  we  have  long  lived  and  moved  now  lifting  up, 
and  are  not  new  lights  finding  free  passage  to  shine  in  upon  us  ? 
For  a  long  time  there  was  no  passage  for  them  to  make  their 
way  in  upon  us,  and  then  it  was  of  no  use  to  think  of  adapting 
the  world's  action  to  them.  Where  was  the  hope  of  making 
reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail  among  people  who  had  a 
routine  which  they  had  christened  reason  and  the  will  of  God, 
in  which  they  were  inextricably  bound,  and  beyond  which  they 
had  no  power  of  looking  ?  But  now  the  iron  force  of  adhesion 
to  the  old  routine,  —  social,  political,  religious,  —  has  wonder- 


270  SWEETNESS.  AND  LIGHT 

fully  yielded ;  the  iron  force  of  exclusion  of  all  which  is  new 
has  wonderfully  yielded.  The  danger  now  is,  not  that  people 
should  obstinately  refuse  to  allow  anything  but  their  old  routine 
to  pass  for  reason  and  the  will  of  God,  but  either  that  they 
should  allow  some  novelty  or  other  to  pass  for  these  too  easily, 
or  else  that  they  should  underrate  the  importance  of  them  alto- 
gether, and  think  it  enough  to  follow  action  for  its  own  sake, 
without  troubling  themselves  to  make  reason  and  the  will  of 
God  prevail  therein.  Now,  then,  is  the  moment  for  culture  to 
be  of  service,  culture  which  believes  in  making  reason  and  the 
will  of  God  prevail,  believes  in  perfection,  is  the  study  and  pur- 
suit of  perfection,  and  is  no  longer  debarred,  by  a  rigid  invinci- 
ble exclusion  of  whatever  is  new,  from  getting  acceptance  for  its 
ideas,  simply  because  they  are  new. 

The  moment  this  view  of  culture  is  seized,  the  moment  it  is 
regarded  not  solely  as  the  endeavour  to  see  things  as  they  are, 
to  draw  towards  a  knowledge  of  the  universal  order  which  seems 
to  be  intended  and  aimed  at  in  the  world,  and  which  it  is  a 
man's  happiness  to  go  along  with  or  his  misery  to  go  counter 
to, — to  learn,  in  short,  the  will  of  God,  —  the  moment,  I  say, 
culture  is  considered  not  merely  as  the  endeavour  to  see  and 
learji  this,  but  as  the  endeavour,  also,  to  make  it  prevail,  the 
moral,  social,  and  beneficent  character  of  culture"'  becomes 
manifest.  The  mere  endeavour  to  see  and  learn  the  truth  for 
our  own  personal  satisfaction  is  indeed  a  commencement  for 
making  it  prevail,  a  preparing  the  way  for  this,  which  always 
serves  this,  and  is  wrongly,  therefore,  stamped  with  blame  abso- 
lutely in  itself  and  not  only  in  its  caricature  and  degeneration. 
But  perhaps  it  has  got  stamped  with  blame,  and  disparaged 
with  the  dubious  title  of  curiosity,  because  in  comparison  with 
this  wider  endeavour  of  such  great  and  plain  utility  it  looks  self- 
ish, petty,  and  unprofitable. 

And  religion,  the  greatest  and  most  important  of  the  efforts 
by  which  the  human  race  has  manifested  its  impulse  to  perfect 
itself,  —  religion,  that  voice  of  the  deepest  human  experience,  — 
does  not  only  enjoin  and  sanction  the  aim  which  is  the  great 
aim  of  culture,  the  aim  of  setting  ourselves  to  ascertain  what 
perfection  is  and  to  make  it  prevail ;  but  also,  in  determining 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  27 1 

generally  in  what  human  perfection  consists,  religion  comes  to  a 
conclusion  identical  with  that  which  culture,  —  culture  seeking 
the  determination  of  this  question  through  all  the  voices  of  hu- 
man experience  which  have  been  heard  upon  it,  of  art,  science, 
poetry,  philosophy,  history,  as  well  as  of  religion,  in  order  to 
give  a  greater  fulness  and  certainty  to  its  solution,  —  likewise 
reaches.  Religion  says  :  The  kingdom  of  God  is  within  you ; 
and  culture,  in  like  manner,  places  human  perfection  in  an 
internal  condition,  in  the  growth  and  predominance  of  our  hu- 
manity proper,  as  distinguished  from  our  animality.  It  places 
it  in  the  ever-increasing  efficacy  and  in  the  general  harmonious 
expansion  of  those  gifts  of  thought  and  feeling,  which  make  the 
peculiar  dignity,  wealth,  and  happiness  of  human  nature.  As  I 
have  said  on  a  former  occasion  :  "It  is  in  making  endless  addi- 
tions to  itself,  in  the  endless  expansion  of  its  powers,  in  endless 
growth  in  wisdom  and  beauty,  that  the  spirit  of  the  human  race 
finds  its  ideal.  To  reach  this  ideal,  culture  is  an  indispensable 
aid,  and  that  is  the  true  value  of  culture."  (_Not  a  having  and  a 
resting,  but  a  growing  and  a  becoming,  is  the  character  of  per- 
fection as  culture  conceives  it ;  and  here,  too,  it  coincides  with 
religion. 

And  because  men  are  all  members  of  one  great  whole,  and 
the  sympathy  which  is  in  human  nature  will  not  allow  one  mem- 
ber to  be  indifferent  to  the  rest  or  to  have  a  perfect  welfare 
independent  of  the  rest,  the  expansion  of  our  humanity,  to  suit 
the  idea  of  perfection  which  culture  forms,  must  be  a  general 
expansion.  Perfection,  as  culture  conceives  it,  is  not  possible 
while  the  individual  remains  isolated.  The  individual  is  re- 
quired, under  pain  of  being  stunted  and  enfeebled  in  his  own 
development  if  he  disobeys,  to  carry  others  along  with  him  in 
his  march  towards  perfection,  to  be  continually  doing  all  he  can 
to  enlarge  and  increase  the  volume  of  the  human  stream  sweep- 
ing thitherward.  And  here,  once  more,  culture  lays  on  us  the 
same  obligation  as  religion,  which  says,  as  Bishop  Wilson  has 
admirably  put  it,  that  "  to  promote  the  kingdom  of  God  is  to 
increase  and  hasten  one's  own  happiness." 

But,  finally,  perfection,  —  as  culture  from  a  thorough  dis- 
interested study  of  human  nature  and  human  experience  learns 


2/2  SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT 

to  conceive  it,  —  is  a  harmonious  expansion  of  all  the  powers 
which  make  the  beauty  and  worth  of  human  nature,  and  is  not 
consistent  with  the  over-development  of  any  one  power  at  the 
expense  of  the  rest.  Here  culture  goes  beyond  religion,  as 
religion  is  generally  conceived  by  us. 

If  culture,  then,  is  a  study  of  perfection,  and  of  harmonious 
perfection,  general  perfection,  and  perfection  which  consists  in 
becoming  something  rather  than  in  having  something,  in  an  in- 
ward condition  of  the  mind  and  spirit,  not  in  an  outward  set  of 
circumstances,  —  it  is  clear  that  culture,  instead  of  being  the 
frivolous  and  useless  thing  which  Mr.  Bright,  and  Mr.  Frederic 
Harrison,  and  many  other  Liberals  are  apt  to  call  it,  has  a  very 
important  function  to  fulfil  for  mankind.  And  this  function 
is  particularly  important  in  our  modern  world,  of  which  the 
whole  civilisation  is,  to  a  much  greater  degree  than  the  civili- 
sation of  Greece  and  Rome,  mechanical  and  external,  and 
tends  constantly  to  become  more  so.  But  above  all  in  our  own 
country  has  culture  a  weighty  part  to  perform,  because  here 
that  mechanical  character,  which  civilisation  tends  to  take 
everywhere,  is  shown  in  the  most  eminent  degree.  Indeed 
nearly  all  the  characters  of  perfection,  as  culture  teaches  us  to 
fix  them,  meet  in  this  country  with  some  powerful  tendency 
which  thwarts  them  and  sets  them  at  defiance.  The  idea  of 
perfection  as  an  inward  condition  of  the  mind  and  spirit  is  at 
variance  with  the  mechanical  and  material  civilisation  in  esteem 
with  us,  and  nowhere,  as  I  have  said,  so  much  in  esteem  as  with 
us.  The  idea  of  perfection  as  a  general  expansion  of  the  hu- 
man family  is  at  variance  with  our  strong  individualism,  our 
hatred  of  all  limits  to  the  unrestrained  swing  of  the  individual's 
personality,  our  maxim  of  "  every  man  for  himself."  Above  all, 
the  idea  of  perfection  as  a  harmonious  expansion  of  human 
nature  is  at  variance  with  our  want  of  flexibility,  with  our 
inaptitude  for  seeing  more  than  one  side  of  a  thing,  with  our 
intense  energetic  absorption  in  the  particular  pursuit  we  happen 
to  be  following.  So  culture  has  a  rough  task  to  achieve  in  this 
country.  Its  preachers  have,  and  are  likely  long  to  have,  a 
hard  time  of  it,  and  they  will  rauch  oftener  be  regarded,  for  a 
great  while  to  come,  as  elegant  or  spurious  Jeremiahs  than  as 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  2.^1 

friends  and  benefactors.  That,  however,  will  not  prevent  their 
doing  in  the  end  good  service  if  they  persevere.  And,  mean- 
while, the  mode  of  action  they  have  to  pursue,  and  the  sort  of 
habits  they  must  fight  against,  ought  to  be  made  quite  clear  for 
every  one  to  see,  who  may  be  willing  to  look  at  the  matter  atten- 
tively and  dispassionately. 

Faith  in  machinery  is,  I  said,  our  besetting  danger;  often  in 
machinery  most  absurdly  disproportioned  to  the  end  which  this 
machinery,  if  it  is  to  do  any  good  at  all,  is  to  serve  ;  but  always 
in  machinery,  as  if  it  had  a  value  in  and  for  itself.  What  is 
freedom  but  machinery  ?  what  is  population  but  machinery  ? 
what  is  coal  but  machinery  ?  what  are  railroads  but  machinery  ? 
what  is  wealth  but  machinery  ?  what  are,  even,  religious  organi- 
sations but  machinery  ?  Now  almost  every  voice  in  England  is 
accustomed  to  speak  of  these  things  as  if  they  were  precious 
ends  in  themselves,  and  therefore  had  some  of  the  characters 
of  perfection  indisputably  joined  to  them.  I  have  before  now 
noticed  Mr.  Roebuck's  stock  argument  for  proving  the  greatness 
and  happiness  of  England  as  she  is,  and  for  quite  stopping  the 
mouths  of  all  gainsayers.  Mr.  Roebuck  is  never  weary  of  reit- 
erating this  argument  of  his,  so  I  dj  not  know  why  I  should  be 
weary  of  noticing  it.  "  May  not  every  man  in  England  say  what 
he  likes  ?  "  —  Mr.  Roebuck  perpetually  asks  ;  and  that,  he  thinks, 
is  quite  sufficient,  and  when  every  man  may  say  what  he  likes, 
our  aspirations  ought  to  be  satisfied.  But  the  aspirations  of  cul- 
ture, which  is  the  study  of  perfection,  are  not  satisfied,  unless 
what  men  say,  when  they  may  say  what  they  like,  is  worth  saying, 
—  has  good  in  it,  and  more  good  than  bad.  In  the  same  way  the 
Times,  replying  to  some  foreign  strictures  on  the  dress,  looks, 
and  behaviour  of  the  English  abroad,  urges  that  the  English 
ideal  is  that  every  one  should  be  free  to  do  and  to  look  just  as 
he  likes.  But  culture  indefatigably  tries,  not  to  make  what  each 
raw  person  may  like  the  rule  by  which  he  fashions  himself ;  but 
to  draw  ever  nearer  to  a  sense  of  what  is  indeed  beautiful, 
graceful,  and  becoming,  and  to  get  the  raw  person  to  like  that. 

And  in  the  same  way  with  respect  to  railroads  and  coal.  Every 
one  must  have  observed  the  strange  language  current  during  the 
late  discussions  as  to  the  possible  failures  of  our  supplies  of  coal. 

T 


2/4  SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT 

Our  coal,  thousands  of  people  were  saying,  is  the  real  basis  of 
our  national  greatness  ;  if  our  coal  runs  short,  there  is  an  end 
of  the  greatness  of  England.  But  what  is  greatness  ?  —  culture 
makes  us  ask.  Greatness  is  a  spiritual  condition  worthy  to 
excite  love,  interest,  and  admiration  ;  and  the  outward  proof  of 
possessing  greatness  is  that  we  excite  love,  interest, -and  admira- 
tion. If  England  were  swallowed  up  by  the  sea  to-morrow,  which 
of  the  two,  a  hundred  years  hence,  would  most  excite  the  love, 
interest,  and  admiration  of  mankind,  —  would  most,  therefore, 
show  the  evidences  of  having  possessed  greatness,  —  the  England 
of  the  last  twenty  years,  or  the  England  of  Elizabeth,  of  a  time 
of  splendid  spiritual  effort,  but  when  our  coal,  and  our  industrial 
operations  depending  on  coal,  were  very  little  developed  ?  Well, 
then,  what  an  unsound  habit  of  mind  it  must  be  which  makes  us 
talk  of  things  like  coal  or  iron  as  constituting  the  greatness  of 
England,  and  how  salutary  a  friend  is  culture,  bent  on  seeing 
things  as  they  are,  and  thus  dissipating  delusions  of  this  kind 
and  fixing  standards  of  perfection  that  are  real ! 

Wealth,  again,  that  end  to  which  our  prodigious  works  for 
material  advantage  are  directed,  —  the  commonest  of  common- 
places tells  us  how  men  are  always  apt  to  regard  wealth  as  a 
precious  end  in  itself ;  and  certainly  they  have  never  been  so 
apt  thus  to  regard  it  as  they  are  in  England  at  the  present  time. 
Never  did  people  believe  anything  more  firmly  than  nine  Eng- 
lishmen out  of  ten  at  the  present  day  believe  that  our  greatness 
and  welfare  are  proved  by  our  being  so  very  rich.  Now,  the  use 
of  culture  is  that  it  helps  us,  by  means  of  its  spiritual  standard  of 
perfection,  to  regard  wealth  as  but  machinery,  and  not  only  to 
say  as  a  matter  of  words  that  we  regard  wealth  as  but  machinery, 
but  really  to  perceive  and  feel  that  it  is  so.  If  it  were  not  for 
this  purging  effect  wrought  upon  our  minds  by  culture,  the  whole 
world,  the  future  as  well  as  the  present,  would  inevitably  belong 
to  the  Philistines.  The  people  who  believe  most  that  our  great- 
ness and  welfare  are  proved  by  our  being  very  rich,  and  who 
most  give  their  lives  and  thoughts  to  becoming  rich,  are  just  the 
very  people  whom  we  call  Philistines.  Culture  says  :  "  Consider 
these  people,  then,  their  way  of  life,  their  habits,  their  manners, 
the  very  tones  of  their  voice  ;  look  at  them  attentively ;  observe 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  2/5 

the  literature  they  read,  the  things  which  give  them  pleasure,  the 
words  which  come  forth  out  of  their  mouths,  the  thoughts  which 
make  the  furniture  of  their  minds  ;  would  any  amount  of  wealth 
be  worth  having  with  the  condition  that  one  was  to  become  just 
like  these  people  by  having  it  ?  "  And  thus  culture  begets  a  dis- 
satisfaction which  is  of  the  highest  possible  value  in  stemming 
the  common  tide  of  men's  thoughts  in  a  wealthy  and  industrial 
community,  and  which  saves  the  future,  as  one  may  hope,  from 
being  vulgarised,  even  if  it  cannot  save  the  present. 

Population,  again,  and  bodily  health  and  vigour,  are  things 
which  are  nowhere  treated  in  such  an  unintelligent,  misleading, 
exaggerated  way  as  in  England.  Both  are  really  machinery ; 
yet  how  many  people  all  around  us  do  we  see  rest  in  them  and 
fail  to  look  beyond  them !  Why,  one  has  heard  people,  fresh 
from  reading  certain  articles  of  the  Times  on  the  Registrar-Gen- 
eral's returns  of  marriages  and  births  in  this  country,  who  would 
talk  of  our  large  English  families  in  quite  a  solemn  strain,  as  if 
they  had  something  in  itself  beautiful,  elevating,  and  meritorious 
in  them  ;  as  if  the  British  Philistine  would  have  only  to  present 
himself  before  the  Great  Judge  with  his  twelve  children,  in  order 
to  be  received  among  the  sheep  as  a  matter  of  right ! 

But  bodily  health  and  vigour,  it  may  be  said,  are  not  to  be 
classed  with  wealth  and  population  as  mere  machinery;  they 
have  a  more  real  and  essential  value.  True  ;  but  only  as  they 
are  more  intimately  connected  with  a  perfect  spiritual  condition 
than  wealth  or  population  are.  The  moment  we  disjoin  them  from 
the  idea  of  a  perfect  spiritual  condition,  and  pursue  them,  as  we 
do  pursue  them,  for  their  own  sake  and  as  ends  in  themselves,  our 
worship  of  them  becomes  as  mere  worship  of  machinery,  as  our 
worship  of  wealth  or  population,  and  as  unintelHgent  and  vulgar- 
ising a  worship  as  that  is.  Every  one  with  anything  like  an 
adequate  idea  of  human  perfection  has  distinctly  marked  this 
subordination  to  higher  and  spiritual  ends  of  the  cultivation  of 
bodily  vigour  and  activity.  "  Bodily  exercise  profiteth  little  ;  but 
godliness  is  profitable  unto  all  things,"  says  the  author  of  the 
Epistle  to  Timothy.  And  the  utilitarian  Franklin  says  just  as 
explicitly :  —  "  Eat  and  drink  such  an  exact  quantity  as  suits  the 
constitution  of  thy  body,  in  reference  to  the  services  of  the  mindy 


fe 


2^6  SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT 

But  the  point  of  view  of  culture,  keeping  the  mark  of  human  per- 
fection simply  and  broadly  in  view,  and  not  assigning  to  this  per- 
fection, as  religion  or  utilitarianism  assigns  to  it,  a  special  and 
limited  character,  this  point  of  view,  I  say,  of  culture  is  best  given 
by  these  words  of  Epictetus :  —  "  It  is  a  sign  of  d^ma,"  says  he, 
—  that  is,  of  a  nature  not  finely  tempered,  —  "  to  give  yourselves 
up  to  things  which  relate  to  the  body  ;  to  make,  for  instance,  a 
great  fuss  about  exercise,  a  great  fuss  about  eating,  a  great  fuss 
about  drinking,  a  great  fuss  about  walking,  a  great  fuss  about 
riding.  All  these  things  ought  to  be  done  merely  by  the  way : 
the  formation  of  the  spirit  and  character  must  be  our  real  con- 
cern." This  is  admirable  ;  and,  indeed,  the  Greek  word  €v(f>v!:a, 
a  finely  tempered  nature,  gives  exactly  the  notion  of  perfection 
as  culture  brings  us  to  conceive  it:  a  harmonious  perfection,  a 
perfection  in  which  the  characters  of  beauty  and  intelligence  are 
both  present,  which  unites  "the  two  noblest  of  things,"  —  as 
Swift,  who  of  one  of  the  two,  at  any  rate,  had  himself  all  too  lit- 
tle, most  happily  calls  them  in  his  Battle  of  the  Books,  —  "  the 
two  noblest  of  things,  stveetness  and  light.''''  The  ei^nT^s  is  the 
man  who  tends  towards  sweetness  and  light ;  the  d<^v7^s,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  our  Philistine.  The  immense  spiritual  sig- 
nificance of  the  Greeks  is  due  to  their  having  been  inspired  with 
this  central  and  happy  idea  of  the  essential  character  of  human 
perfection ;  and  Mr.  Bright's  misconception  of  culture,  as  a 
smattering  of  Greek  and  Latin,  comes  itself,  after  all,  from  this 
wonderful  significance  of  the  Greeks  having  affected  the  very 
machinery  of  our  education,  and  is  in  itself  a  kind  of  homage 
to  it. 

In  thus  making  sweetness  and  light  to  be  characters  of  per- 
fection, culture  is  of  like  spirit  with  poetry,  follows  one  law  with 
poetry.  Far  more  than  on  our  freedom,  our  population,  and  our 
industrialism,  many  amongst  us  rely  upon  our  religious  organisa- 
tions to  save  us.  I  have  called  religion  a  yet  more  important 
manifestation  of  human  nature  than  poetry,  because  it  has  worked 
on  a  broader  scale  for  perfection,  and  with  greater  masses  of 
men.'  But  the  idea  of  beauty  and  of  a  human  nature  perfect  on 
all  its  sides,  which  is  the  dominant  idea  of  poetry,  is  a  true  and 
invaluable  idea,  though  it  has  not  yet  had  the  success  that  the 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  2/7 

idea  of  conquering  the  obvious  faults  of  our  animality,  and  of  a 
human  nature  perfect  on  the  moral  side,  —  which  is  the  domi- 
nant idea  of  religion,  —  has  been  enabled  to  have;  and  it  is 
destined,  adding  to  itself  the  religious  idea  of  a  devout  energy, 
to  transform  and  govern  the  other. 

The  best  art  and  poetry  of  the  Greeks,  in  which  religion  and 
poetry  are  one,  in  which  the  idea  of  beauty  and  of  a  human  na- 
ture perfect  on  all  sides  adds  to  itself  a  religious  and  devout 
energy,  and  works  in  the  strength  of  that,  is  on  this  account  of 
such  surpassing  interest  and  instructiveness  for  us,  though  it 
was,  —  as,  having  regard  to  the  human  race  in  general,  and, 
indeed,  having  regard  to  the  Greeks  themselves,  we  must  own, 
—  a  premature  attempt,  an  attempt  which  for  success  needed 
the  n^oral  and  religious  fibre  in  humanity  to  be  more  braced  and 
developed  than  it  had  yet  been.  But  Greece  did  not  err  in  hav- 
ing the  idea  of  beauty,  harmony,  and  complete  human  perfection, 
so  present  and  paramount.  It  is  impossible  to  have  this  idea 
too  present  and  paramount ;  only,  the  moral  fibre  must  be  braced 
too.  And  we,  because  we  have  braced  the  moral  fibre,  are  not 
on  that  account  in  the  right  way,  if  at  the  same  time  the  idea  of 
beauty,  harmony,  and  complete  human  perfection,  is  wanting  or 
misapprehended  amongst  us  ;  and  evidently  it  is  wanting  or  mis- 
apprehended at  present.  And  when  we  rely  as  we  do  on  our 
religious  organisations,  which  in  themselves  do  not  and  cannot 
give  us  this  idea,  and  think  we  have  done  enough  if  we  make 
them  spread  and  prevail,  then,  I  say,  we  fall  into  our  common 
fault  of  overvaluing  machinery. 

Nothing  is  more  common  than  for  people  to  confound  the  in- 
ward peace  and  satisfaction  which  follows  the  subduing  of  the 
obvious  faults  of  our  animality  with  what  I  ma}^  call  absolute 
inward  peace  and  satisfaction,  —  the  peace  and  satisfaction 
which  are  reached  as  we  draw  near  to  complete  spiritual  perfec- 
tion, and  not  merely  to  moral  perfection,  or  rather  to  relative 
moral  perfection.  No  people  in  the  world  have  done  more  and 
struggled  more  to  attain  this  relative  moral  perfection  than  our 
English  race  has.  For  no  people  in  the  world  has  the  command 
to  resist  the  devil,  to  oveno7?ie  the  ivicked  one,  in  the  nearest  and 
most  obvious  sense  of  those  words,  had  such  a  pressing  force 


278  SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT 

and  reality.  And  we  have  had  our  reward,  not  only  in  the  great 
worldly  prosperity  which  our  obedience  to  this  command  has 
brought  us,  but  also,  and  far  more,  in  great  inward  peace  and 
satisfaction.  But  to  me  few  things  are  more  pathetic  than  to  see 
people,  on  the  strength  of  the  inward  peace  and  satisfaction 
which  their  rudimentary  efforts  towards  perfection  have  brought 
them,  employ,  concerning  their  incomplete  perfection  and  the 
religious  organisations  within  which  they  have  found  it,  language 
which  properly  applies  only  to  complete  perfection,  and  is  a  far- 
off  echo  of  the  human  soul's  prophecy  of  it.  Religion  itself,  I 
need  hardly  say,  supplies  them  in  abundance  with  this  grand 
language.  And  very  freely  do  they  use  it ;  yet  it  is  really  the 
severest  possible  criticism  of  such  an  incomplete  perfection  as 
alone  we  have  yet  reached  through  our  reUgious  organisations. 

The  impulse  of  the  English  race  towards  moral  development 
and  self-conquest  has  nowhere  so  powerfully  manifested  itself  as 
in  Puritanism.  Nowhere  has  Puritanism  found  so  adequate  an 
expression  as  in  the  religious  organisation  of  the  Independents. 
The  modern  Independents  have  a  newspaper,  the  Nonconformist, 
written  with  great  sincerity  and  ability.  The  motto,  the  stand- 
ard, the  profession  of  faith  which  this  organ  of  theirs  carries 
aloft,  is  :  "  The  Dissidence  of  Dissent  and  the  Protestantism  of 
the  Protestant  religion."  There  is  sweetness  and  light,  and  an 
ideal  of  complete  harmonious  human  perfection  !  One  need  not 
go  to  culture  and  poetry  to  find  language  to  judge  it.  Religion, 
with  its  instinct  for  perfection,  supplies  language 'to  judge  it, 
language,  too,  which  is  in  our  mouths  every  day.  "  Finally,  be 
of  one  mind,  united  in  feeling,"  says  St.  Peter.  There  is  an 
ideal  which  judges  the  Puritan  ideal :  "  The  Dissidence  of  Dis- 
sent and  the  Protestantism  of  the  Protestant  religion  !  "  And 
religious  organisations  like  this  are  what  people  believe  in,  rest 
in,  would  give  their  lives  for  !  Such,  I  say,  is  the  wonderful 
virtue  of  even  the  beginnings  of  perfection,  of  having  conquered 
even  the  plain  faults  of  our  animality,  that  the  religious  organisa- 
tion which  has  helped  us  to  do  it  can  seem  to  us  something 
precious,  salutary,  and  to  be  propagated,  even  when  it  wears 
such  a  brand  of  imperfection  on  its  forehead  as  this.  And  men 
have  got  such  a  habit  of  giving  to  the  language  of  religion  a 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


279 


special  application,  of  making  it  a  mere  jargon,  that  for  the  con- 
demnation which  religion  itself  passes  on  the  shortcomings  of 
their  religious  organisations  they  have  no  ear ;  they  are  sure  to 
cheat  themselves  and  to  explain  this  condemnation  away.  They 
can  only  be  reached  by  the  criticism  which  culture,  like  poetry, 
speaking  a  language  not  to  be  sophisticated,  and  resolutely  test- 
ing these  organisations  by  the  ideal  of  a  human  perfection  com- 
plete on  all  sides,  applies  to  them. 

But  men  of  culture  and  poetry,  it  will  be  said,  are  again  and 
again  failing,  and  faihng  conspicuously,  in  the  necessary  fir^t 
stage  to  a  harmonious  perfection,  in  the  subduing  of  the  great 
obvious  faults  of  our  animality,  which  it  is  the  glory  of  these 
religious  organisations  to  have  helped  us  to  subdue.  True,  they 
do  often  so  fail.  They  have  often  been  without  the  virtues  as 
well  as  the  faults  of  the  Puritan  ;  it  has  been  one  of  their  dan- 
gers that  they  so  felt  the  Puritan's  faults  that  they  too  much 
neglected  the  practice  of  his  virtues.  I  will  not,  however,  excul- 
pate them  at  the  Puritan's  expense.  They  have  often  failed  in 
morality,  and  morality  is  indispensable.  And  they  have  been 
punished  for  their  failure,  as  the  Puritan  has  been  rewarded  for 
his  performance.  They  have  been  punished  wherein  they  erred  ; 
but  their  ideal  of  beauty,  of  sweetness  and  light,  and  a  human 
nature  complete  on  all  its  sides,  remains  the  true  ideal  of  perfec- 
tion still;  just  as  the  Puritan's  ideal  of  perfection  remains  nar- 
row and  inadequate,  although  for  what  he  did  well  he  has  been 
richly  rewarded.  Notwithstanding  the  mighty-  results  of  the 
Pilgrim  Fathers'  voyage,  they  and  their  standard  of  perfection 
are  rightly  judged  when  we  figure  to  ourselves  Shakspeare  or 
Virgil,  —  souls  in  whom  sweetness  and  light,  and  all  that  in 
human  nature  is  most  humane,  were  eminent,  —  accompanying 
them  on  their  voyage,  and  think  what  intolerable  company 
Shakspeare  and  Virgil  would  have  found  them  !  In  the  same 
way  let  us  judge  the  religious  organisations  which  we  see  all 
around  us.  Do  not  let  us  deny  the  good  and  the  happiness 
which  they  have  accomplished  ;  but  do  not  let  us  fail  to  see 
clearly  that  their  idea  of  human  perfection  is  narrow  and  inade- 
quate, and  that  the  Dissidence  of  Dissent  and  the  Protestantism 
of  the  Protestant  religion  will  never  bring  humanity  to  its  true 


280  SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT 

goal.  As  I  said  with  regard  to  wealth  :  Let  us  look  at  the  life  of 
those  who  live  in  and  for  it,  —  so  I  say  with  regard  to  the  reli- 
gious organisations.  Look  at  the  life  imaged  in  such  a  newspaper 
as  the  Nonconformist,  —  a  life  of  jealousy  of  the  Establishment,  dis- 
putes, tea-meetings,  openings  of  chapels,  sermons;  and  then  think 
of  it  as  an  ideal  of  a  human  life  completing  itself  on  all  sides,  and  , 
aspiring  with  all  its  organs  after  sweetness,  light,  and  perfection  ! 
Anotner  newspaper,  representing,  like  the  Nonconfortnist,  one 
of  the  religious  organisations  of  this  country,  was  a  short  time 
ago  giving  an  account  of  the  crowd  at  Epsom  on  the  Derby  day, 
and  of  all  the  vice  and  hideousness  which  was  to  be  seen  in  that 
crowd  ;  and  then  the  writer  turned  suddenly  round  upon  Pro- 
fessor Huxley,  and  asked  him  how  he  proposed  to  cure  all  this 
vice  and  hideousness  without  religion.  I  confess  I  felt  disposed 
to  ask  the  asker  this  question  :  and  how  do  you  propose  to  cure 
it  with  such  a  religion  as  yours  ?  How  is  the  ideal  of  a  life  so 
unlovely,  so  unattractive,  so  incomplete,  so  narrow,  so  far  re- 
moved from  a  true  and  satisfying  ideal  of  human  perfection,  as 
is  the  life  of  your  religious  organisation  as  you  yourself  reflect 
it,  to  conquer  and  transform  all  this  vice  and  hideousness  ?  In- 
deed, the  strongest  plea  for  the  study  of  perfection  as  pursued 
by  culture,  the  clearest  proof  of  the  actual  inadequacy  of  the 
idea  of  perfection  held  by  the  religious  organisations,  —  express- 
ing, as  I  have  said,  the  most  widespread  effort  which  the  human 
race  has  yet  made  after  perfection,  —  is  to  be  found  in  the  state 
of  our  life  and  society  with  these  in  possession  of  it,  and  having 
been  in  possession  of  it  I  know  not  how  many  hundred  years. 
We  are  all  of  us  included  in  some  religious  organisation  or  other  ; 
we  all  call  ourselyes,  in  the  sublime  and  aspiring  language  of 
religion  which  I  have  before  noticed,  children  of  God.  Children 
of  God ;  —  it  is  an  immense  pretension !  —  and  how  are  we  to 
justify  it  ?  By  the  works  which  we  do,  and  the  words  which  we 
speak.  And  the  work  which  we  collective  children  of  God  do, 
our  grand  centre  of  life,  our  <://y  which  we  have  builded  for  us  to 
dwell  in,  is  London  !  London,  with  its  unutterable  external 
hideousness,  and  with  its  internal  canker  of  puhlice  egestas,  pri- 
vafim  opulentia}  —  to   use   the  words   which   Sallust  puts  into 

1  [Public  poverty,  private  opulence.] 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  28 1 

Cato's  mouth  about  Rome,  —  unequalled  in  the  world !  The 
word  again,  which  we  children  of  God  speak,  the  voice  which  most 
hits  our  collective  thought,  the  newspaper  with  the  largest  circu- 
lation in  England,  nay,  with  the  largest  circulation  in  the  whole 
world,  is  the  Daily  Telegraph  f  I  say  that  when  our  religious 
organisations,  —  which  1  admit  to  express 'the  most  considerable 
effort  after  perfection  that  our  race  has  yet  made,  —  land  us  in 
no  better  result  than  this,  it  is  high  time  to  examine  carefully 
their  idea  of  perfection,  to  see  whether  it  does  not  leave  out  of 
account  sides  and  forces  of  human  nature  which  we  might  turn 
to  great  use  ;  whether  it  would  not  be  more  operative  if  it  were 
more  complete.  And  I  say  that  the  English  reliance  on  our 
religious  organisations  and  on  their  ideas  of  human  perfection 
just  as  they  stand,  is  like  our  reliance  on  freedom,  on  muscular 
Christianity,  on  population,  on  coal,  on  wealth,  —  mere  behef  in 
machinery,  and  unfruitful;  and  that  it  is  wholesomely  counteracted 
by  culture,  bent  on  seeing  things  as  they  are,  and  on  drawing  the 
human  race  onwards  to  a  more  complete,  a  harmonious  perfection. 
Culture,  however,  shows  its  single-minded  love  of  perfection, 
its  desire  simply  to  make  reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail,  its 
freedom  from  fanaticism,  by  its  attitvide  towards  all  this  ma- 
chinery, even  while  it  insists  that  it  is  machinery.  Fanatics, 
seeing  the  mischief  men  do  themselves  by  their  blind  belief  in 
some  machinery  or  other,  —  whether  it  is  wealth  and  industrial- 
ism, or  whether  it  is  the  cultivation  of  bodily  strength  and  activ- 
ity, or  whether  it  is  a  political  organisation,  —  or  whether  it  is  a 
religious  organisation,  —  oppose  with  might  and  main  the  ten- 
dency to  this  or  that  political  and  religious  organisation,  or  to 
games  and  athletic  exercises,  or  to  wealth  and  industrialism,  and 
try  violently  to  stop  it.  But  the  flexibility  which  sweetness  and 
light  give,  and  which  is  one  of  the  rewards  of  culture  pursued  in 
good  faith,  enables  a  man  to  see  that  a  tendency  may  be  neces- 
sary, and  even,  as  a  preparation  for  something  in  the  future, 
salutary,  and  yet  that  the  generations  or  individuals  who  obey 
this  tendency  are  sacrificed  to  it,  that  they  fall  short  of  the  hope 
of  perfection  by  following  it ;  and  that  its  mischiefs  are  to  be 
criticised,  lest  it  should  take  too  firm  a  hold  and  last  after  it  has 
served  its  purpose. 


282  SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT 

Mr.  Gladstone  well  pointed  out,  in  a  speech  at  Paris,  —  and 
others  have  pointed  out  the  same  thing, — how  necessary  is  the 
present  great  movement  towards  wealth  and  industrialism,  in 
order  to  lay  broad  foundations  of  material  well-being  for  the 
society  of  the  future.  The  worst  of  these  justifications  is,  that 
they  are  generally  addressed  to  the  very  people  engaged,  body 
and  soul,  in  the  movement  in  question  ;  at  all  events,  that  they 
are  always  seized  with  the  greatest  avidity  by  these  people,  and 
taken  by  them  as  quite  justifying  their  life ;  and  that  thus  they 
tend  to  harden  them  in  their  sins.  Now,  culture  admits  the 
necessity  of  the  movement  towards  fortune-making  and  exag- 
gerated industrialism,  readily  allows  that  the  future  may  derive 
benefit  from  it ;  but  insists,  at  the  same  time,  that  the  passing 
generations  of  industrialists,  —  forming,  for  the  most  part,  the 
stout  main  body  of  Philistinism,  —  are  sacrificed  to  it.  In  the 
same  way,  the  result  of  all  the  games  and  sports  which  occupy 
the  passing  generation  of  boys  and  young  men  maybe  the  estab- 
lishment of  a  better  and  sounder  physical  type  for  the  future  to 
work  with.  Culture  does  not  set  itself  against  the  games  and 
sports ;  it  congratulates  the  future,  and  hopes  it  will  make  a 
good  use  of  its  improved  physical  basis ;  but  it  points  out  that 
our  passing  generation  of  boys  and  young  men  is,  meantime, 
sacrificed.  Puritanism  was  perhaps  necessary  to  develop  the 
moral  fibre  of  the  English  race.  Nonconformity  to  break  the 
yoke  of  ecclesiastical  domination  over  men's  minds  and  to  pre- 
pare the  way  for  freedom  of  thought  in  the  distant  future  ;  still, 
culture  points  out  that  the  harmonious  perfection  of  generations 
of  Puritans  and  Nonconformists  have  been,  in  consequence,  sac- 
rificed. Freedom  of  speech  may  be  necessary  for  the  society  of 
the  future,  but  the  young  lions  of  the  Daily  Telegraph  in  the 
meanwhile  are  sacrificed.  A  voice  for  every  man  in  his  coun- 
try's government  may  be  necessary  for  the  society  of  the  future, 
but  meanwhile  Mr.  Beales  and  Mr.  Bradlaugh  are  sacrificed. 

Oxford,  the  Oxford  of  the  past,  has  many  faults  ;  and  she  has 
heavily  paid  for  them  in  defeat,  in  isolation,  in  want  of  hold  upon 
the  modern  world.  Yet  we  in  Oxford,  brought  up  amidst  the 
beauty  and  sweetness  of  that  beautiful  place,  have  not  failed  to 
seize  one  truth,  — •  the  truth  that  beauty  and  sweetness  are  essen- 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  283 

tial  characters  of  a  complete  human  perfection.  When  I  insist 
on  this,  I  am  all  in  the  faith  and  tradition  of  Oxford.  I  say 
boldly  that  this  our  sentiment  for  beauty  and  sweetness,  our 
sentiment  against  hideousness  and  rawness,  has  been  at  the  bot- 
tom of  our  attachment  to  so  many  beaten  causes,  of  our  opposi- 
tion to  so  many  triumphant  movements.  And  the  sentiment  is 
true,  and  has  never  been  wholly  defeated,  and  has  shown  its 
power  even  in  its  defeat.  We  have  not  won  our  political  battles, 
we  have  not  carried  our  main  points,  we  have  not  stopped  our 
adversaries'  advance,  we  have  not  marched  victoriously  with  the 
modern  world  ;  but  we  have  told  silently  upon  the  mind  of  the 
country,  we  have  prepared  currents  of  feeling  which  sap  our 
adversaries'  position  when  it  seems  gained,  we  have  kept  up 
our  own  communications  with  the  future.  Look  at  the  course 
of  the  great  movement  which  shook  Oxford  to  its  centre  some 
thirty  years  ago  !  It  was  directed,  as  any  one  who  reads  Dr. 
Newman's  Apology  may  see,  against  what  in  one  word  may  be 
called  "  Liberalism."  Liberalism  prevailed ;  it  was  the  ap- 
pointed force  to  do  the  work  of  the  hour ;  it  was  necessary,  it 
was  inevitable  that  it  should  prevail.  The  Oxford  movement 
was   broken,    it   failed ;    our   wrecks    are    scattered   on   every 

shore : — 

Quae  regio  in  terris  nostri  non  plena  laboris  ?  ^ 

But  what  was  it,  this  liberalism,  as  Dr.  Newman  saw  it,  and  as 
it  really  broke  the  Oxford  movement  ?  It  was  the  great  middle- 
class  liberalism,  which  had  for  the  cardinal  points  of  its  belief 
the  Reform  Bill  of  1832,  and  loc'al  self-government,  in  politics; 
in  the  social  sphere,  free-trade,  unrestricted  competition,  and 
the  making  of  large  industrial  fortunes  ;  in  the  religious  sphere, 
the  Dissidence  of  Dissent  and  the  Protestantism  of  the  Protestant 
religion.  I  do  not  say  that  other  and  more  intelligent  forces 
than  this  were  not  opposed  to  the  Oxford  movement :  but  this 
was  the  force  which  really  beat  it ;  this  was  the  force  which 
Dr.  Newman  felt  himself  fighting  with  ;  this  was  the  force  which 
till  only  the  other  day  seemed  to  be  the  paramount  force  in  this 
country,  and  to  be  in  possession  of  the  future  ;  this  was  the  force 

1  [What  region  in  the  earth  not  full  of  our  labor  ?] 


284  SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT 

whose  achievements  fill  Mr.  Lowe  with  such  inexpressible  admi- 
ration, and  whose  rule  he  was  so  horror-struck  to  see  threatened. 
And  M^here  is  this  great  force  of  Philistinism  now  ?  It  is  thrust 
into  the  second  rank,  it  is  become  a  power  of  yesterday,  it  has 
lost  the  future.  A  new  poWer  has  suddenly  appeared,  a  power 
which  it  is  impossible  yet  to  judge  fully,  but  which  is  certainly 
a  wholly  different  force  from  middle-class  liberaHsm ;  different 
in  its  cardinal  points  of  belief,  different  in  its  tendencies  in  every 
sphere.  It  loves  and  admires  neither  the  legislation  of  middle- 
class  Parliaments,  nor  the  local  self-government  of  middle-class 
vestries,  nor  the  unrestricted  competition  of  middle-class  indus- 
trialists, nor  the  dissidence  of  middle-class  Dissent  and  the 
Protestantism  of  middle-class  Protestant  religion.  I  am  not 
now  praising  this  new  force,  or  saying  that  its  own  ideals  are 
better  ;  all  I  say  is,  that  they  are  wholly  different.  And  who 
will  estimate  how  much  the  currents  of  feeling  created  by  Dr. 
Newman's  movements,  the  keen  desire  for  beauty  and  sweetness 
which  it  nourished,  the  deep  aversion  it  manifested  to  the  hard- 
ness and  vulgarity  of  middle-class  liberalism,  the  strong  light  it 
turned  on  the  hideous  and  grotesque  illusions  of  middle-class 
Protestantism, — who  will  estimate  how  m-uch  all  these  contrib- 
uted to  swell  the  tide  of  secret  dissatisfaction  which  has  mined 
the  ground  under  self-confident  liberalism  of  the  last  thirty  years, 
and  has  prepared  the  way  for  its  sudden  collapse  and  superses- 
sion ?  It  is  in  this  manner  that  the  sentiment  of  Oxford  for 
beauty  and  sweetness  conquers,  and  in  this  manner  long  may  it 
continue  to  conquer ! 

In  this  manner  it  works  to  tKe  same  end  as  culture,  and  there 
is  plenty  of  work  for  it  yet  to  do.  I  have  said  that  the  new  and 
more  democratic  force  which  is  now  superseding  our  old  middle- 
class  liberalism  cannot  yet  be  rightly  judged.  It  has  its  main 
tendencies  still  to  form.  We  hear  promises  of  its  giving  us 
administrative  reform,  law  reform,  reform  of  education,  and  I 
know  not  what ;  but  those  promises  come  rather  from  its  advo- 
cates, wishing  to  make  a  good  plea  for  it  and  to  justify  it  for 
superseding  middle-class  liberalism,  than  from  clear  tendencies 
which  it  has  itself  yet  developed.  But  meanwhile  it  has  plenty 
of  well-intentioned  friends  against  whom  culture  may  with  ad- 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  285 

vantage  continue  to  uphold  steadily  its  ideal  of  human  pvirfec- 
tion  ;  that  this  is  an  inward  spiritual  activity,  having  for  its  char- 
acters increased  sweetness,  increased  light,  increased  life,  increased 
sympathy.     Mr.  Bright,  who  has  a  foot  in  both  worlds,  the  world 
of  middle-class  liberalism  and  the  world  of  democracy,  but  who 
brings  most  of  his  ideas  from  the  world  of  middle-class  liberalism 
in  which  he  was  bred,  always  inclines  to  inculcate  that  faith  in 
machinery  to  which,  as  we  have  seen,  Englishmen  are  so  prone, 
and  which  has  been  the  bane  of  middle-class  liberalism.     He 
complains  with  a  sorrowful  indignation  of  people  who  "  appear 
to  have  no  proper  estimate  of  the  value  of  the  franchise ;  "  he 
leads  his  disciples  to  believe,  —  what  the  Englishman  is  always 
too  ready  to  believe,  —  that  the  having  a  vote,  like  the  having  a 
large  family,  or  a  large  business,  or  large  muscles,  has  in  itself 
some  edifying  and  perfecting  effect  upon  human   nature.     Or 
else  he  cries  out  to  the  democracy,  —  "the  men,"  as  he  calls 
them,  "upon  whose  shoulders  the  greatness  of  England  rests," 
—  he  cries  out  to  them :  "  See  what  you  have  done  !     I  look 
over  this  country  and  see  the  cities  you  have  built,  the  railroads 
you  have  made,  the  manufactures  you  have  produced,  the  cargoes 
which  freight  the  ships  of  the  greatest  mercantile  navy  the  world 
has  ever  seen  L    I  see  that  you  have  converted  by  your  labours 
what  was  once  a  wilderness,  these  islands,  into  a  fruitful  gar- 
den ;  I  know  that  you  have  created  this  wealth,  and  are  a  nation 
whose  name  is  a  word  of  power  throughout  all  the  world."    Why, 
this  is  just  the  very  style  of  laudation  with  which  Mr.  Roebuck 
or  Mr.  Lowe  debauches  the  minds  of  the  middle  classes,  and 
makes  such  Philistines  of  them.    It  is  the  same  fashion  of  teach- 
ing a  man  to  value  himself  not  on  what  he  is,  not  on  his  prog- 
ress in  sweetness  and  light,  but  on  the  number  of  the  railroads 
he  has  constructed,  or  the  bigness  of  the  tabernacle  he  has  built. 
Only  the  middle  classes  are  told  that  they  have  done  it  all  with 
their  energy,  self-reliance,  and  capital,  and  the  democracy  are 
told  they  have  done  it  all  with  their  hands  and  sinews.     But 
teaching  the  democracy  to  put  its  trust  in  achievements  of  this 
kind  is  merely  training  them  to  be  Philistines  to  take  the  place 
of  the   Philistines  whom  they  are  superseding ;   and  they  too, 
like  the  middle  class,  will  be  encouraged  to  sit  down  at  the  ban- 


286  SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT 

quet  of  the  future  without  having  on  a  wedding  garment,  and. 
nothing  excellent  can  then  come  from  them.  Those  who  know 
their  besetting  faults,  those  who  have  watched  them  and  listened 
to  them,  or  those  who  will  read  the  instructive  account  recently 
given  of  them  by  one  of  themselves,  the  Joiirneymau  Engmeer, 
will  agree  that  the  idea  which  culture  sets  before  us  of  perfec- 
tion, —  an  increased  spiritual  activity,  having  for  its  characters 
increased  sweetness,  increased  light,  increased  life,  increased 
sympathy,  —  is  an  idea  which  the  new  democracy  needs  far 
more  than  the  idea  of  the  blessedness  of  the  franchise,  or  the 
wonderfulness  of  its  own  industrial  performances. 

Other  well-meaning  friends  of  this  new  power  are  for  leading 
it,  not  in  the  old  ruts  of  middle-class  Philistinism,  but  in  ways 
which  are  naturally  alluring  to  the  feet  of  democracy,  though  in 
this  country  they  are  novel  and  untried  ways.  I  may  call  them 
the  ways  of  Jacobinism.  Violent  indignation  with  the  past,  ab- 
stract systems  of  renovation  applied  wholesale,  a  new  doctrine 
drawn  up  in  black  and  white  for  elaborating  down  to  the  very 
smallest  details  a  rational  society  for  the  future,  —  these  are  the 
ways  of  Jacobinism.  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  and  other  disciples 
of  Comte,  —  one  of  them,  Mr.  Congreve,  is  an  old  friend  of 
mine,  and  I  am  glad  to  have  an  opportunity  of  publicly  express- 
ing my  respect  for  his  talents  and  character,  —  are  among  the. 
friends  of  democracy  who  are  for  leading  it  in  paths  of  this  kind. 
Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  is  very  hostile  to  culture,  and  from  a 
natural  enough  motive  ;  for  culture  is  the  eternal  opponent  of 
the  two  things  which  are  the  signal  marks  of  Jacobinism,  —  its 
fierceness,  and  its  addiction  to  an  abstract  system.  Culture  is 
always  assigning  to  system-makers  and  systems  a  smaller  share 
in  the  bent  of  human  destiny  than  their  friends  like.  A  current 
in  people's  minds  sets  towards  new  ideas  ;  people  are  dissatisfied 
with  their  old  narrow  stock  of  Philistine  ideas,  Anglo-Saxon 
ideas,  or  any  other;  and  some  man,  some  Bentham  or  Comte, 
who  has  the  real  merit  of  having  early  and  strongly  felt  and 
helped  the  new  current,  but  who  brings  plenty  of  narrowness 
and  mistakes  of  his  own  into  his  feeling  and  help  of  it,  is  cred- 
ited with  being  the  author  of  the  whole  current,  the  fit  person  to 
be  entrusted  with  its  regulation  and  to  guide  the  human  race. 


/<;\ 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  287 

The  excellent  German  historian  of  the  mythology  of  Rome, 
Preller,  relating  the  introduction  at  Rome  under  the  Tarquins 
of  the  worship  of  Apollo,  the  god  of  light,  healing,  and  recon- 
ciliation, will  have  us  observe  that  it  was  not  so  much  the  Tar- 
quins who  brought  to  Rome  the  new  worship  of  Apollo,  as  a 
current  in  the  mind  of  the  Roman  people  which  set  powerfully 
at  that  time  towards  a  new  worship  of  this  kind,  and  away  from 
the  old  run  of  Latin  and  Sabine  religious  ideas.  In  a  similar 
way,  culture  directs  our  attention  to  the  natural  current  there  is 
in  human  affairs,  and  to  its  continual  working,  and  will  not  let 
us  rivet  our  faith  upon  any  one  man  and  his  doings.  It  makes  us 
see  not  only  his  good  side,  but  also  how  much  in  him  was  of 
necessity  limited  and  transient ;  nay,  it  even  feels  a  pleasure,  a 
sense  of  an  increased  freedom  and  of  an  ampler  future,  in  so 
doing. 

I  remember,  when  I  was  vmder  the  influence  of  a  mind  to  which 
I  feel  the  greatest  obligations,  the  mind  of  a  man  who  was  the 
very  incarnation  of  sanity  and  clear  sense,  a  man  the  most  con- 
siderable, it  seems  to  me,  whom  America  has  yet  produced,  — 
Benjamin  Franklin,  —  I  remember  the  relief  with  which,  after 
long  feeling  the  sway  of  Franklin's  imperturbable  common-sense, 
I  came  upon  a  project  of  his  for  a  new  version  of  the  Book  of 
Job,  to  replace  the  old  version,  the  style  of  which,  says  Franklin, 
has  become  obsolete,  and  thence  less  agreeable.  "  I  give,"  he 
continues,  "  a  few  verses,  which  may  serve  as  a  sample  of  the 
kind  of  version  I  would  recommend."  We  all  recollect  the  famous 
verse  in  our  translation  :  "  Then  Satan  answered  the  Lord  and 
said  :  '  Doth  Job  fear  God  for  nought  ? '  "  Franklin  makes  this  : 
"  Does  your  Majesty  imagine  that  Job's  good  conduct  is  the 
effect  of  mere  personal  attachment  and  affection  ?  "  I  well  re- 
member how,  when  first  I  read  that,  I  drew  a  deep  breath  of 
relief,  and  said  to  myself  :  "  After  all,  there  is  a  stretch  of  humanity 
beyond  Franklin's  victorious  good  sense !  "  So,  after  hearing 
Bentham  cried  loudly  up  as  the  renovator  of  modern  society, 
and  Bentham's  mind  and  ideas  proposed  as  the  rulers  of  our 
future,  I  open  the  Deontology.  There  I  read  :  "  ^Vhile  Xenophon 
was  writing  his  history  and  Euclid  teaching  geometry,  Socrates 
and  Plato  were  talking  nonsense  under  pretence  of  talking  wis- 


288  SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT 

dom  and  morality.  This  morality  of  theirs  consisted  in  words  ; 
this  wisdom  of  theirs  was  the  denial  of  matters  known  to  every 
man's  experience."  From  the  moment  of  reading  that,  I  am 
delivered  from  the  bondage  of  Bentham  !  the  fanaticism  of  his 
adherents  can  touch  me  no  longer.  I  feel  the  inadequacy  of 
his  mind  and  ideas  for  supplying  the  rule  of  human  society,  for 
perfection. 

Culture  tends  always  thus  to  deal  with  the  men  of'  a  system, 
of  disciples,  of  a  school ;  with  men  like  Comte,  or  the  late  Mr. 
Buckle,  or  Mr.  Mill.  However  much  it  may  find  to  admire 
in  these  personages,  or  in  some  of  them,  it  nevertheless  remem- 
bers the  text :  "  Be  not  ye  called  Rabbi !  "  and  it  soon  passes  on 
from  any  Rabbi.  But  Jacobinism  loves  a  Rabbi ;  it  does  not 
want  to  pass  on  from  its  Rabbi  in  pursuit  of  a  future  and  still 
unreached  perfection ;  it  wants  its  Rabbi  and  his  ideas  to 
stand  for  perfection,  that  they  may  with  the  more  authority 
recast  the  world ;  and  for  Jacobinism,  therefore,  culture,  — 
eternally  passing  onwards  and  seeking,  —  is  an  impertinence 
and  an  offence.  But  culture,  just  because  it  resists  this  tendency 
of  Jacobinism  to  impose  on  us  a  man  with  limitations  and  errors 
of  his  own  afong  wdth  the  true  ideas  of  which  he  is  the  organ, 
really  does  the  world  and  Jacobinism  itself  a  service. 

So,  too,  Jacobinism,  in  its  fierce  hatred  of  the  past  and  of 
those  whom  it  makes  liable  for  the  sins  of  the  past,  cannot  away 
with  the  inexhaustible  indulgence  proper  to  culture,  the  consid- 
eration of  circumstances,  the  severe  judgment  of  actions  joined 
to  the  merciful  judgment  of  persons.  "  The  man  of  culture  is 
in  politics,"  cries  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison,  "  one  of  the  poorest 
mortals  alive ! "  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  wants  to  be  doing 
business,  and  he  complains  that  the  man  of  culture  stops  him 
with  a  "  turn  for  small  fault-finding,  love  of  selfish  ease,  and  in- 
decision in  action."  Of  what  use  is  culture,  he  asks,  except  for 
"  a  critic  of  new  books  or  a  professor  of  belles-leth'es  ?  "  Why, 
it  is  of  use  because,  in  presence  of  the  fierce  exasperation  which 
breathes,  or  rather,  I  may  say,  hisses  through  the  whole  pro- 
duction in  which  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  asks  that  question,  it 
reminds  us  that  the  perfection  of  human  nature  is  sweetness 
and  light.     It  is  of  use  because,  like  religion,  —  that  other  effort 


Matthew  Arnold  289 

after   perfection,  —  it   testifies   that,  where  bitter  envying  and 
strife  are,  there  is  confusion  and  every  evil  work. 

The  pursuit  of  perfection,  then,  is  the  pursuit  of  sweetness 
and  light.  He  who  works  for  sweetness  and  light,  works  to 
make  reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail.  He  who  works  for 
machinery,  he  who  works  for  hatred,  works  only  for  confusion. 
Culture  looks  beyond  machinery,  culture  hates  hatred;  culture 
has  one  great  passion,  the  passion  for  sweetness  and  light.  It 
has  one  even  yet  greater  !  — the  passion  for  making  \\\q.vcv  prevail. 
It  is  not  satisfied  till  we  all  come  to  a  perfect  man ;  it  knows 
that  the  sweetness  and  light  of  the  few  must  be  imperfect  until 
the  raw  and  unkindled  masses  of  humanity  are  touched  with 
sweetness  and  light.  If  I  have  not  shrunk  from  saying  that  we 
must  work  for  sweetness  and  light,  so  neither  have  I  shrunk 
from  saying  that  we  must  have  a  broad  basis,  must  have  sweet- 
ness and  light  for  as  many  as  possible.  Again  and  again  I  have 
insisted  how  those  are  the  happy  moments  of  humanity,  how 
those  are  the  marking  epochs  of  a  people's  life,  how  those 
are  the  flowering  times  for  literature  and  art  and  all  the  crea- 
tive power  of  genius,  when  there  is  a  natiofial  glow  of  life  and 
thought,  when  the  whole  of  society  is  in  the  fullest  measure 
permeated  by  thought,  sensible  to  beauty,  intelligent  and  alive. 
Only  it  must  be  real  thought  and  real  beauty ;  real  sweetness 
and  real  light.  Plenty  of  people  will  try  to  give  the  masses,  as 
they  call  them,  an  intellectual  food  prepared  and  adapted  in  the 
way  they  think  proper  for  the  actual  condition  of  the  masses. 
The  ordinary  popular  literature  is  an  example  of  this  way  of 
working  on  the  masses.  Plenty  of  people  will  try  to  indoctrinate 
the  masses  with  the  set  of  ideas  and  judgments  constituting  the 
creed  of  their  own  profession  or  party.  Our  religious  and  politi- 
cal organisations  give  an  example  of  this  way  of  working  on  the 
masses.  I  condemn  neither  way  ;  but  culture  works  differently. 
It  does  not  try  to  teach  down  to  the  level  of  inferior  classes  ;  it 
does  not  try  to  win  them  for  this  or  that  sect  of  its  own,  with 
ready-made  judgments  and  watchwords.  It  seeks  to  do  away 
with  classes  ;  to  make  the  best  that  has  been  thought  and  known 
in  the  world  current  everywhere  ;  to  make  all  men  live  in  an 
atmosphere  of  sweetness  and  light,  where  they  may  use  ideas, 
u 


290  SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT 

as  it  uses  them  itself,  freely,  —  nourished,   and  not  bound  by 
them. 

This  is  the  social  idea ;  and  the  men  of  culture  are  the  true 
apostles  of  equality.  The  great  men  of  culture  are  those  who 
have  had  a  passion  for  diffusing,  for  making  prevail,  for  carrying 
from  one  end  of  society  to  the  other,  the  best  knowledge,  the 
best  ideas  of  their  time  ;  who  have  laboured  to  divest  knowledge 
of  all  that  was  harsh,  uncouth,  difficult,  abstract,  professional, 
exclusive  ;  to  humanise  it,  to  make  it  efficient  outside  the  clique 
of  the  cultivated  and  learned,  yet  still  remaining  the  best  knowl- 
edge and  thought  of  the  time,  and  a  true  source,  therefore,  of 
sweetness  and  light.  Such  a  man  was  Abelard  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  in  spite  of  all  his  imperfections ;  and  thence  the  boundless 
emotion  and  enthusiasm  which  Abelard  excited.  Such  were 
Lessing  and  Herder  in  Germany,  at  the  end  of  the  last  century  ; 
and  their  services  to  Germany  were  in  this  way  inestimably 
precious.  Generations  will  pass,  and  literary ,  monuments  will 
accumulate,  and  works  far  more  perfect  than  the  works  of  Les- 
sing and  Herder  will  be  produced  in  Germany ;  and  yet  the 
names  of  these  two  men  will  fill  a  German  with  a  reverence 
and  enthusiasm  such  as  the  names  of  the  most  gifted  masters 
will  hardly  awaken.  And  why  ?  Because  they  humanised  knowl- 
edge ;  because  they  broadened  the  basis  of  life  and  intelligence  ; 
because  they  worked  powerfully  to  diffuse  sweetness  and  light, 
to  make  reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail.  With  Saint  Augus- 
tine they  said :  "  Let  us  not  leave  thee  alone  to  make  in  the 
secret  of  thy  knowledge,  as  thou  didst  before  the  creation  of 
the  firmament,  the  division  of  light  from  darkness ;  let  the  chil- 
dren of  thy  spirit,  placed  in  their  firmament,  make  their  light 
shine  upon  the  earth,  mark  the  division  of  night  and  day,  and 
announce  the  revolution  of  the  times  ;  for  the  old  order  is 
passed,  and  the  new  arises  ;  the  night  is  spent,  the  day  is  come 
forth  ;  and  thou  shalt  crown  the  year  with  thy  blessing,  when 
thou  shalt  send  forth  labourers  into  thy  harvest  sown  by  other 
hands  than  theirs  ;  when  thou  shalt  send  forth  new  labourers  to 
new  seed-times,  whereof  the  harvest  shall  be  not  yet." 


WALTER  BAGEHOT  29 1 

ORNATE   ART 

WALTER   BAGEHOT 

[From  Wordsworth,   Tennyson,  and  Browning ;  or  Pure,   Ornate,  and 
Grotesque  Art  in  English  Poetry,  1864.] 

The  extreme  opposite  to  this  pure  art  is  what  may  be  called 
ornate  art.  This  species  of  art  aims  also  at  giving  a  delineation 
of  the  typical  idea  in  its  perfection  and  its  fulness,  but  it  aims  at 
so  doing  in  a  manner  most  different.  It  wishes  to  surround  the 
type  with  the  greatest  number  of  circumstances  which  it  will  bear. 
It  works  not  by  choice  and  selection,  but  by  accumulation  and 
aggregation.  The  idea  is  not,  as  in  the  pure  style,  presented  with 
the  least  clothing  which  it  will  endure,  but  with  the  richest  and 
most  involved  clothing  that  it  will  admit. 

We  are  fortunate  in  not  having  to  hunt  out  of  past  literature  an 
illustrative  specimen  of  the  ornate  style.  Mr.  Tennyson  has  just 
given  one  admirable  in  itself,  and  most  characteristic  of  the  defects 
and  the  merits  of  this  style.  The  story  of  Enoch  Ardcn,  as  he  has 
enhanced  and  presented  it,  is  a  rich  and  splendid  composite  of 
imagery  and  illustration.  Yet  how  simple  that  story  is  in  itself ! 
A  sailor  who  sells  fish,  breaks  his  leg,  gets  dismal,  gives  up 
selling  fish,  goes  to  sea,  is  wrecked  on  a  desert  island,  stays 
there  some  years,  on  his  return  finds  his  wife  married  to  a 
miller,  speaks  to  a  landlady  on  the  subject,  and  dies.  Told 
in  the  pure  and  simple,  the  unadorned  and  classical  style,  this 
story  would  not  have  taken  three  pages,  but  Mr.  Tennyson  has 
been  able  to  make  it  the  principal — -the  largest  tale  in  his  new 
volume.  He  has  done  so  only  by  giving  to  every  event  and  inci- 
dent in  the  volume  an  accompanying  commentary.  He  tells  a 
great  deal  about  the  torrid  zone,  which  a  rough  sailor  hke  Enoch 
Arden  certainly  would  not  have  perceived  ;  and  he  gives  to  the 
fishing  village,  to  which  all  the  characters  belong,  a  softness  and  a 
fascination  which  such  villages  scarcely  possess  in  reality. 

The  description  of  the  tropical  island  on  which  the  sailor  is 
thrown,  is  an  absolute  model  of  adorned  art :  — 


>> 


292  ORNATE  ART 

"The  mountain  wooded  to  the  peak,  the  lawns 
And  winding  glades  high  up  like  ways  to  Heaven, 
The  slender  coco's  drooping  crown  of  plumes, 
The  lightning  flash  of  insect  and  of  bird, 
The  lustre  of  the  long  convolvuluses 
That  coil'd  around  the  stately  stems,  and  ran 
Ev'n  to  the  limit  of  the  land,  the  glows 
And  glories  of  the  broad  belt  of  the  world. 
All  these  he  saw;   but  what  he  fain  had  seen 
He  could  not  see,  the  kindly  human  face. 
Nor  ever  hear  a  kindly  voice,  but  heard 
The  myriad  shriek  of  wheeling  ocean-fowl, 
The  league-long  roller  thundering  on  the  reef, 
The  moving  whisper  of  huge  trees  that  branch'd 
And  blossom'd  in  the  zenith,  or  the  sweep 
Of  some  precipitous  rivulet  to  the  wave, 
As  down  the  shore  he  ranged,  or  all  day  long 
Sat  often  in  the  seaward-gazing  gorge, 
A  shipwreck'd  sailor,  waiting  for  a  sail: 
No  sail  from  day  to  day,  but  every  day 
The  sunrise  broken  into  scarlet  shafts 
Among  the  palms  and  ferns  and  precipices; 
The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east ; 
The  blaze  upon  his  island  overhead; 
The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  west; 
Then  the  great  stars  that  globed  themselves  in  Heaven, 
The  hollower-bellowing  ocean,  and  again 
The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise  —  but  no  sail." 


No  expressive  circumstances  can  be  added  to  this  description,  no 
enhancing  detail  suggested.  A  much  less  happy  instance  is  the 
description  of  Enoch's  life  before  he  sailed :  — 


"  While  Enoch  was  abroad  on  wrathful  seas. 
Or  often  journeying  landward  ;    for  in  truth 
Enoch's  white  horse,  and  Enoch's  ocean  spoil 
In  ocean-smelling  osier,  and  his  face 
Rough-redden'd  with  a  thousand  winter  gales. 
Not  only  to  the  market-cross  were  known. 
But  in  the  leafy  lanes  behind  the  down. 
Far  as  the  portal-warding  lion-whelp. 
And  peacock  yew-tree  of  the  lonely  Hall, 
Whose  Friday  fare  was  Enoch's  ministering." 


WALTER  BAGEHOT  ^93 

So  much  has  not  often  been  made  of  selling  fish.  The  essence 
of  ornate  art  is  in  this  manner  to  accumulate  round  the  typical 
object,  everything  which  can  be  said  about  it,  every  associated 
thought  that  can  be  connected  with  it,  without  impairing  the 
essence  of  the  delineation. 

The  first  defect  which  strikes  a  student  of  ornate  art  —  the  first 
which  arrests  the  mere  reader  of  it  —  is  what  is  called  a  want  of 
simplicity.  Nothing  is  described  as  it  is  ;  everything  has  about  it 
an  atmosphere  of  something  else.  The  combined  and  associated 
thoughts,  though  they  set  off  and  heighten  particular  ideas  and 
aspects  of  the  central  and  typical  conception,  yet  complicate  it : 
a  simple  thing  —  "a  daisy  by  the  river's  brim  "  —  is  never  left  by 
itself,  something  else  is  put  with  it ;  something  not  more  con- 
nected with  it  than  "  lion- whelp  "  and  the  "peacock  yew-tree" 
are  with  the  "  fresh  fish  for  sale  "  that  Enoch  carries  past  them. 
Even  in  the  highest  cases,  ornate  art  leaves  upon  a  cultured  and 
delicate  taste,  the  conviction  that  it  is  not  the  highest  art,  that  it 
is  somehow  excessive  and  over-rich,  that  it  is  not  chaste  in  itself  or 
chastening  to  the  mind  that  sees  it  —  that  it  is  in  an  explained 
manner  unsatisfactory,  "  a  thing  in  which  we  feel  there  is  some 
hidden  want !  " 

That  want  is  a  want  of  "  definition."  We  must  all  know  land- 
scapes, river  landscapes  especially,  which  are  in  the  highest  sense 
beautiful,  which  when  we  first  see  them  give  us  a  delicate  pleasure  ; 
which  in  some  —  and  these  the  best  cases  —  give  even  a  gentle 
sense  of  surprise  that  such  things  should  be  so  beautiful,  and  yet 
when  we  come  to  live  in  them,  to  spend  even  a  few  hours  in  them, 
we  seem  stifled  and  oppressed.  On  the  other  hand  there  are  peo- 
ple to  whom  the  sea-shore  is  a  companion,  an  exhilaration  ;  and 
not  so  much  for  the  brawl  of  the  shore  as  for  the  limited  vastness, 
the  finite  infinite  of  the  ocean  as  they  see  it.  Such  people  often 
come  home  braced  and  nerved,  and  if  they  spoke  out  the  truth, 
would  have  only  to  say,  "  We  have  seen  the  horizon  line  "  ;  if  they 
were  let  alone  indeed,  they  would  gaze  on  it  hour  after  hour,  so 
great  to  them  is  the  fascination,  so  full  the  sustaining  calm,  which 
they  gain  from  that  union  of  form  and  greatness.  To  a  very  infe- 
rior extent,  but  still,  perhaps,  to  an  extent  which  most  people 
understand   better,  a  common  arch  will  have   the   same  effect. 


294  ORNATE  ART 

A  bridge  completes  a  river  landscape ;  if  of  the  old  and  many- 
arched  sort,  it  regulates  by  a  long  series  of  defined  forms  the  vague 
outline  of  wood  and  river,  which  before  had  nothing  to  measure 
it ;  if  of  the  new  scientific  sort,  it  introduces  still  more  strictly  a 
geometrical  element;  it  stiffens  the  scenery  which  was  before  too 
soft,  too  delicate,  too  vegetable.  Just  such  is  the  effect  of  pure 
style  in  literary  art.  It  calms  by  conciseness ;  while  the  ornate 
style  leaves  on  the  mind  a  mist  of  beauty,  an  excess  of  fascination, 
a  complication  of  charm,  the  pure  style  leaves  behind  it  the  sim- 
ple, defined,  measured  idea,  as  it  is,  and  by  itself.  That  which  is 
chaste  chastens  ;  there  is  a  poised  energy  —  a  state  half  thrill,  half 
tranquillity  —  which  pure  art  gives,  which  no  other  can  give;  a 
pleasure  justified  as  well  as  felt ;  an  ennobled  satisfaction  at  what 
ought  to  satisfy  us,  and  must  ennoble  us. 

Ornate  art  is  to  pure  art  what  a  painted  statue  is  to  an  unpainted. 
It  is  impossible  to  deny  that  a  touch  of  colour  does  bring  out  cer- 
tain parts  ;  does  convey  certain  expressions  ;  does  heighten  certain 
features,  but  it  leaves  on  the  work  as  a  whole,  a  want,  as  we  say, 
"  of  something  "  ;  a  want  of  that  inseparable  chasteness  which 
chngs  to  simple  sculpture,  an  impairing  predominance  of  alluring 
details  which  impairs  our  satisfaction  with  our  own  satisfaction ; 
which  makes  us  doubt  whether  a  higher  being  than  ourselves  will 
be  satisfied  even  though  we  are  so.  In  the  very  same  manner,  , 
though  the  rouge  of  ornate  literature  excites  our  eye,  it  also 
impairs  our  confidence. 

Mr.  Arnold  has  justly  observed  that  this  self-justifying,  self-prov- 
ing purity  of  style  is  commoner  in  ancient  literature  than  in 
modern  hterature,  and  also  that  Shakespeare  is  not  a  great  or  an 
unmixed  example  of  it.  No  one  can  say  that  he  is.  His  works 
are  full  of  undergrowth,  are  full  of  complexity,  are  not  models  of 
style  ;  except  by  a  miracle,  nothing  in  the  Elizabethan  age  could 
be  a  model  of  style ;  the  restraining  taste  of  that  age  was  feebler 
and  more  mistaken  than  that  of  any  other  equally  great  age.  ^ 
Shakespeare's  mind  so  teemed  with  creation  that  he  required  the 
most  just,  most  forcible,  most  constant  restraint  frojn  without. 
He  most  needed  to  be  guided  among  poets,  and  he  was  the^  least 
and  worst  guided.  As  a  whole  no  one  can  call  his  works-  finished 
models  of  the  pure  style,  or  of  any  style.     But   he   has   many   ' 


WALTER  BAGEHOT  295 

passages  of  the  most  pure  style,  passages  which  could  be  easily 
cited  if  space  served.  And  we  must  remember  that  the  task 
which  Shakespeare  undertook  was  the  most  difficult  which  any 
poet  has  ever  attempted,  and  that  it  is  a  task  in  which  after  a 
million  efforts  every  other  poet  has  failed.  The  Elizabethan 
drama  —  as  Shakespeare  has  immortahsed  it  —  undertakes  to 
delineate  in  five  acts,  under  stage  restrictions,  and  in  mere  dia- 
logue, a  whole  list  of  dmniaiis  personcz,  a  set  of  characters  enough 
for  a  modern  novel,  and  with  the  distinctness  of  a  modern  novel. 
Shakespeare  is  not  content  to  give  two  or  three  great  characters  in 
solitude  and  in  dignity,  like  the  classical  dramatists  ;  he  wishes  to 
give  a  whole  party  of  characters  in  the  play  of  life,  and  according 
to  the  nature  of  each.  He  would  "  hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature," 
not  to  catch  a  monarch  in  a  tragic  posture,  but  a  whole  group  of 
characters  engaged  in  many  actions,  intent  on  many  purposes, 
thinking  many  thoughts.  There  is  life  enough,  there  is  action 
enough,  in  single  plays  of  Shakespeare  to  set  up  an  ancient  dram- 
atist for  a  long  career.  And  Shakespeare  succeeded.  His  charac- 
ters, taken  en  masse,  and  as  a  whole,  are  as  well  known  as  any 
novelist's  characters ;  cultivated  men  know  all  about  them,  as 
young  ladies  know  all  about  Mr.  Trollope's  novels.  But  no  other 
dramatist  has  succeeded  in  such  an  aim.  No  one  else's  charac- 
ters are  staple  people  in  English  hterature,  hereditary  people  whom 
every  one  knows  all  about  in  every  generation.  The  contempo- 
rary dramatists,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Ben  Jonson,  Marlowe, 
etc.,  had  many  merits,  some  of  them  were  great  men.  But  a 
critic  must  say  of  them  the  worst  thing  he  has  to  say:  ''They 
were  men  who  failed  in  their_ characteristic  aim;  "  they  attempted 
to  describe  numerous  sets  of  complicated  characters,  and  they 
failed.  No  one  of  such  characters,  or  hardly  one,  lives  in  com- 
mon memory;  the  Fanstiis  of  Marlowe,  a  really  great  idea,  is 
not  remembered.  They  undertook  to  write  what  they  could  not 
write  —  five  acts  full  of  real  characters,  and  in  consequence,  the 
fine  individual  things  they  conceived  are  forgotten  by  the  mixed 
multitude,  and  known  only  to  a  few  of  the  fe\v.  Of  the  Spanish 
theatre  we  cannot  speak  ;  but  there  are  no  such  characters  in  any 
French  tragedy  :  the  whele  aim  of  that  tragedy  forbad  it.  Goethe 
has  added  to  literature  a  few  great  characters  ;    he  may  be   said 


296  ORNATE  AkT 

almost  to  have  added  to  literature  the  idea  of  "  intellectual  crea- 
tion,"—  the  idea  of  describing  the  great  characters  through  the 
intellect ;  but  he  has  not  added  to  the  common  stock  what  Shake- 
speare added,  a  new  multitude  of  men  and  women ;  and  these  not 
in  simple  attitudes,  but  amid  the  most  complex  parts  of  life,  with 
all  their  various  natures  roused,  mixed,  and  strained.  The  sever- 
est art  must  have  allowed  many  details,  much  overflowing  circum- 
stance, to  a  poet  who  undertook  to  describe  what  almost  defies 
description.  Pure  art  would  have  commanded  him  to  use  details 
lavishly,  for  only  by  a  multiplicity  of  such  could  the  required  effect 
have  been  at  all  produced.  Shakespeare  could  .accomplish  it,  for 
his  mind  was  a  spring,  an  inexhaustible  fountain,  of  human  nature, 
and  it  is  no  wonder  that  being  compelled  by  the  task  of  his  time 
to  let  the  fulness  of  his  nature  overflow,  he  sometimes  let  it  over- 
flow too  much,  and  covered  with  erroneous  conceits  and  superflu- 
ous images  characters  and  conceptions  which  would  have  been  far, 
more  justly,  far  more  efl'ectually,  delineated  with  conciseness  and 
simplicity.  But  there  is  an  infinity  of  pure  art  in  Shakespeare 
although  there  is  a  great  deal  else  also. 

It  will  be  said,  if  ornate  art  be,  as  you  say,  an  inferior  species 
of  art,  why  should  it  ever  be  used  ?  If  pure  art  be  the  best  sort 
of  art,  why  should  it  not  always  be  used  ? 

The  reason  is  this  :  literary  art,  as  we  just  now  explained,  is 
concerned  with  literatesque  characters  in  literatesque  situations ; 
and  the  best  art  is  concerned  with  the  7}iost  literatesque  characters 
in  the  most  literatesque  situations.  Such  are  the  objects  of  pure 
art;  it  embodies  with  the  fewest  touches,  and  under  the  most 
select  and  choice  circumstances,  the  highest  conceptions  ;  but  it 
does  not  follow  that  only  the  best  subjects  are  to  be  treated  by 
art,  and  then  only  in  the  very  best  way.  Human  nature  could 
not  endure  such  a  critical  commandment  as  that,  and  it  would  be 
an  erroneous  criticism  which  gave  it.  Any  literatesque  character 
may  be  described  in  literature  under  any  circumstances  which 
exhibit  its  literatesqueness. 

The  essence  of  pure  art  consists  in  its  describing  what  is  as  it 
is,  and  this  is  very  well  for  what  can  bear  it,  but  there  are  many 
inferior  things  which  will  not  bear  it,  and  which  nevertheless 
ought  to  be  described  in  books.    A  certain  kind  of  literature  deals 


WALTER  BAGEHOT  297 

with  illusions,  and  this  kind  of  literature  has  given  a  colouring  to 
the  name  romantic.  A  man  of  rare  genius,  and  even  of  poetical 
genius,  has  gone  so  far  as  to  make  these  illusions  the  true  subject 
of  poetry  —  almost  the  sole  subject. 

"  Without,"  says  Father  Newman,  of  one  of  his  characters,^ 
"  being  himself  a  poet,  he  was  in  the  season  of  poetry,  in  the 
sweet  spring-time,  when  the  year  is  most  beautiful  because  it  is 
new.  Novelty  was  beauty  to  a  heart  so  open  and  cheerful  as  his ; 
not  only  because  it  was  novelty,  and  had  its  proper  charm  as  such, 
but  because  when  we  first  see  things,  we  see  them  in  a  gay  con- 
fusion, which  is  a  principal  element  of  the  poetical.  As  time 
goes  on,  and  we  number  and  sort  and  measure  things,  —  as  we 
gain  views,  we  advance  towards  philosophy  and  truth,  but  we 
recede  from  poetry. 

"  When  we  ourselves  were  young,  we  once  on  a  time  walked  on 
a  hot  summer  day  from  Oxford  to  Nevvington  —  a  dull  road,  as 
any  one  who  has  gone  it  knows  ;  yet  it  was  new  to  us  ;  and  we 
protest  to  you,  reader,  believe  it  or  not,  laugh  or  not,  as  you  will, 
to  us  it  seemed  on  that  occasion  quite  touchingly  beautiful ;  and 
a  soft  melancholy  came  over  us,  of  which  the  shadows  fall  even 
now,  when  we  look  upon  that  dusty,  weary  journey.  And  why? 
because  every  object  which  met  us  was  unknown  and  full  of 
mystery.  A  tree  or  two  in  the  distance  seemed  the  beginning 
of  a  great  wood,  or  park,  stretching  endlessly ;  a  hill  implied  a 
vale  beyond,  with  that  vale's  history ;  the  bye-lanes,  with  their 
green  hedges,  wound  on  and  vanished,  yet  were  not  lost  to  the 
imagination.  Such  was  our  first  journey  ;  but  when  we  had  gone 
over  it  several  times,  the  mind  refused  to  act,  the  scene  ceased  to 
enchant,  stern  reality  alone  remained ;  and  we  thought  it  one  of 
the  most  tiresome,  odious  roads  we  ever  had  occasion  to  traverse." 

That  is  to  say,  that  the  function  of  the  poet  is  to  introduce  a 
"  gay  confusion,"  a  rich  medley  which  does  not  exist  in  the  actual 
world  —  which  perhaps  could  not  exist  in  any  world  —  but  which 
would  seem  pretty  if  it  did  exist.  Every  one  who  reads  Enoch 
Arden  will  perceive  that  this  notion  of  all  poetry  is  exactly  ap- 
plicable to  this  one  poem.  Whatever  be  made  of  Enoch's  "  Ocean 
spoil  in  ocean-smelling  osier,"  of  the  "portal-warding  lion-whelp," 

1  Charles  Reding,  in  Loss  and  Gain,  volume  i,  chapter  3. 


298  ORNATE  ART 

and  the  "peacock  yew-tree,"  every  one  knows  that  in  himself 
Enoch  could  not  have  been  charming.  People  who  sell  fish  about 
the  country  (and  that  is  what  he  did,  though  Mr.  Tennyson  won't 
speak  out,  and  wraps  it  up)  never  are  beautiful.  As  Enoch  was 
and  must  be  coarse,  in  itself  the  poem  must  depend  for  a  charm 
on  a  "  gay  confusion  "  —  on  a  splendid  accumulation  of  impossible 
accessories. 

Mr.  Tennyson  knows  this  better  than  many  of  us  —  he  knows 
the  country  world  ;  he  has  proved  that  no  one  living  knows  it 
better;  he  has  painted  with  pure  art  —  with  art  which  describes 
what  is  a  race  perhaps  more  refined,  more  delicate,  more  conscien- 
tious, than  the  sailor — the  Northern  Farmer  and  we  all  know 
what  a  splendid,  what  a  living  thing,  he  has  made  of  it.  He  could, 
if  he  only  would,  have  given  us  the  ideal  sailor  in  like  manner  —  the 
ideal  of  the  natural  sailor  -we  mean  —  the  characteristic  present 
man  as  he  lives  and  is.  But  this  he  has  not  chosen.  He  has 
endeavoured  to  describe  an  exceptional  sailor,  at  an  exceptionally 
refined  port,  performing  a  graceful  act,  an  act  of  relinquishment. 
And  with  this  task  before  him,  his  profound  taste  taught  him  that 
ornate  art  was  a  necessary  medium  —  was  the  sole  effectual  instru- 
ment —  for  his  purpose.  It  was  necessary  for  him  if  possible  to 
abstract  the  mind  from  reality,  to  induce  us  not  to  conceive  or 
think  of  sailors  as  they  are  while  we  are  reading  of  his  sailors, 
but  to  think  of  what  a  person  who  did  not  know,  might  fancy 
sailors  to  be.  A  casual  traveller  on  the  seashore,  with  the  sen- 
sitive mood  and  the  romantic  imagination  Dr.  Newman  has 
described,  might  fancy,  would  fancy,  a  seafaring  village  to  be  like 
that.  Accordingly,  Mr.  Tennyson  has  made  it  his  aim  to  call  off 
the  stress  of  fancy  from  real  life,  to  occupy  it  otherwise,  to  bury  it 
with  pretty  accessories ;  to  engage  it  on  the  "  peacock  yew-tree," 
and  the  "portal-warding  lion-whelp."  Nothing,  too,  can  be  more 
splendid  than  the  description  of  the  tropics  as  Mr.  Tennyson 
delineates  them,  but  a  sailor  would  not  have  felt  the  tropics  in 
that  manner.  The  beauties  of  nature  would  not  have  so  much 
occupied  him.  He  would  have  known  litde  of  the  scarlet  shafts 
of  sunrise  and  nothing  of  the  long  convolvuluses.  As  in  Robin- 
son Crusoe,  his  own  petty  contrivances  and  his  small  ailments 
would  have  been  the  principal  subject  to  him.  "  For  three  years," 
he  might  have  said,  "  my  back  was  bad ;  and  then  I  put  two  pegs 


WALTER  BAGEHOT  299 

into  a  piece  of  drift-wood  and  so  made  a  chair ;  and  after  that  it 
pleased  God  to  send  me  a  chill."  In  real  life  his  piety  would 
scarcely  have  gone  beyond  that. 

It  will  indeed  be  said,  that  though  the  sailor  had  no  words  for, 
and  even  no  explicit  consciousness  of,  the  splendid  details  of  the 
torrid  zone,  yet  that  he  had,  notwithstanding,  a  dim  latent  inex- 
pressible conception  of  them  :  though  he  could  not  speak  of  them 
or  describe  them,  yet  they  were  much  to  him.  And  doubtless 
such  is  the  case.  Rude  people  are  impressed  by  what  is  beauti- 
ful—  deeply  impressed  —  though  they  could  not  describe  what 
they  see,  or  what  they  feel.  But  what  is  absurd  in  Mr.  Tenny- 
son's description  —  absurd  when  we  extract  it  from  the  gorgeous 
additions  and  ornaments  with  which  Mr.  Tennyson  distracts  us  — 
is,  that  his  hero  feels  nothing  else  but  these  great  splendours.  We 
hear  nothing  of  the  physical  ailments,  the  rough  devices,  the  low 
superstitions,  which  really  would  have  been  the  first  things,  the 
favourite  and  principal  occupations  of  his  mind.  Just  so  when  he 
gets  home  he  may  have  had  such  fine  sentiments,  though  it  is  odd, 
and  he  may  have  spoken  of  them  to  his  landlady,  though  that  is 
odder  still,  —  but  it  is  incredible  that  his  whole  mind  should  be 
made  up  of  fine  sentiments.  Besides  those  sweet  feelings,  if  he 
had  them,  there  must  have  been  many  more  obvious,  more  pro- 
saic, and  some  perhaps  more  healthy.  Mr.  Tennyson  has  shown 
a  profound  judgment  in  distracting  us  as  he  does.  He  has  given 
us  a  classic  delineation  of  the  Northern  Farmer  with  no  ornament 
at  all  —  as  bare  a  thing  as  can  be  —  because  he  then  wanted  to 
describe  a  true  type  of  real  men  ;  he  has  given  us  a  sailor  crowded 
all  over  with  ornament  and  illustration,  because  he  then  wanted 
to  describe  an  unreal  type  of  fancied  men,  —  not  sailors  as  they 
are,  but  sailors  as  they  might  be  wished. 

Another  prominent  element  in  Enoch  Arden  is  yet  more  suit- 
able to,  yet  more  requires  the  aid  of,  ornate  art.  Mr.  Tennyson 
undertook  to  deal  with  half  belief.  The  presentiments  which 
Annie  feels  are  exactly  of  that  sort  which  everybody  has  felt,  and 
which  every  one  has  half  believed  —  which  hardly  any  one  has 
more  than  half  believed.  Almost  every  one,  it  has  been  said, 
would  be  angry  if  any  one  else  reported  that  he  believed  in  ghosts  ; 
yet  hardly  any  one,  when  thinking  by  himself,  wholly  disbelieves 


300  .  OkNATE  ART 

them.  Just  so  such  presentiments  as  Mr.  Tennyson  depicts, 
impress  the  inner  mind  so  much  that  the  outer  mind  —  the 
rational  understanding  —  hardly  likes  to  consider  them  nicely  or 
to  discuss  them  sceptically.  For  these  dubious  themes  an  ornate 
or  complex  style  is  needful.  Classical  art  speaks  out  what  it  has  to 
say  plainly  and  simply.  Pure  style  cannot  hesitate  ;  it  describes 
in  concisest  outline  what  is,  as  it  is.  If  a  poet  really  believes  in 
presentiments,  he  can  speak  out  in  pure  style.  One  who  could 
have  been  a  poet  —  one  of  the  few  in  any  age  of  whom  one  can 
say  certainly  that  they  could  have  been  and  have  not  been  —  has 
spoken  thus :  — 

"  When  Heaven  sends  sorrow, 
Warnings  go  first, 
Lest  it  should  burst 
With  stunning  might 
On  souls  too  bright 

To  fear  the  morrow. 

"Can  science  bear  us 

To  the  hid  springs 
Of  human  things? 
Why  may  not  dream, 
Or  thought's  day-gleam. 
Startle,  yet  cheer. 

*'Are  such  thoughts  fetters, 
While  faith  disowns 
Dread  of  earth's  tones. 
Recks  but  Heaven's  call, 
And  on  the  wall, 

Reads  but  Heaven's  letters?  "1 

But  if  a  poet  is  not  sure  whether  presentiments  are  true  or  not 
true  ;  if  he  wishes  to  leave  his  readers  in  doubt ;  if  he  wishes  an 
atmosphere  of  indistinct  illusion  and  of  moving  shadow,  he  must 
use  the  romantic  style,  the  style  of  miscellaneous  adjunct,  the 
style  "which  shirks,  not  meets"  your  intellect,  the  style  which,  as 
you  are  scrutinising,  disappears. 

Nor   is   this   all,  or   even   the  principal   lesson,  which  Enoch 

1  John  Henry  Newman's  Warnings. 


WAL  TER  BA  GEHO  T  30 1 

Arden  may  suggest  to  us,  of  the  use  of  ornate  art.  That  art  is 
the  appropriate  art  for  an  unpkasing  type.  Many  of  the  characters 
of  real  life,  if  brought  distinctly,  prominently,  and  plainly  before 
the  mind,  as  they  really  are,  if  shown  in  their  inner  nature,  their 
actual  essence,  are  doubtless  very  unpleasant.  They  would  be 
horrid  to  meet  and  horrid  to  think  of.  We  fear  it  must  be  owned 
that  Enoch  Arden  is  this  kind  of  person.  A  dirty  sailor  who  did 
not  go  home  to  his  wife  is  not  an  agreeable  being  :  a  varnish  must 
be  put  on  him  to  make  him  shine.  It  is  true  that  he  acts  rightly ; 
that  he  is  very  good.  But  such  is  human  nature  that  it  finds 
a  little  tameness  in  mere  morality.  Mere  virtue  belongs  to  a 
charity-school  girl,  and  has  a  taint  of  the  catechism.  All  of  us 
feel  this,  though  most  of  us  are  too  timid,  too  scrupulous,  too 
anxious  about  the  virtue  of  others  to  speak  out.  We  are  ashamed 
of  our  nature  in  this  respect,  but  it  is  not  the  less  our  nature. 
And  if  we  look  deeper  into  the  matter  there  are  many  reasons 
why  we  should  not  be  ashamed  of  it.  The  soul  of  man,  and, 
as  we  necessarily  beheve,  of  beings  greater  than  man,  has  many 
parts  besides  its  moral  part.  It  has  an  intellectual  part,  an  artis- 
tic part,  even  a  religious  part,  in  which  mere  morals  have  no 
share.  In  Shakespeare  or  Goethe,  even  in  Newton  or  Archimedes, 
there  is  much  which  will  not  be  cut  down  to  the  shape  of  the 
commandments.  They  have  thoughts,  feelings,  hopes  —  immor- 
tal thoughts  and  hopes  —  which  have  influenced  the  life  of  men, 
and  the  souls  of  men,  ever  since  their  age,  but  which  the  "  whole 
duty  of  man,"  the  ethical  compendium,  does  not  recognise. 
Nothing  is  more  unpleasant  than  a  virtuous  person  with  a  mean 
mind.  A  highly  developed  moral  nature  joined  to  an  unde- 
veloped intellectual  nature,  an  undeveloped  artistic  nature,  and 
a  very  limited  religious  nature,  is  of  necessity  repulsive.  It  repre- 
sents a  bit  of  human  nature  —  a  good  bit,  of  course  —  but  a  bit 
only,  in  disproportionate,  unnatural,  and  revolting  prominence ; 
and,  therefore,  unless  an  artist  use  delicate  care,  we  are  offended. 
The  dismal  act  of  a  squalid  man  needed  many  condiments  to 
make  it  pleasant,  and  therefore  Mr.  Tennyson  was  right  to  mix 
them  subtly  and  to  use  them  freely. 

A  mere  act  of  self-denial  can  indeed  scarcely  be  pleasant  upon 
paper.     A  heroic  struggle  with  an  external  adversary,  even  though 


302  CHARLES  LAMB 

it  end  in  a  defeat,  may  easily  be  made  attractive.  Human  nature 
likes  to  see  itself  look  grand,  and  it  looks  grand  when  it  is  making 
a  brave  struggle  with  foreign  foes.  But  it  does  not  look  grand 
when  it  is  divided  against  itself.  An  excellent  person  striving 
with  temptation  is  a  very  admirable  being  in  reality,  but  he  is 
not  a  pleasant  being  in  description.  We  hope  he  will  win  and 
overcome  his  temptation ;  but  we  feel  that  he  would  be  a  more 
interesting  being,  a  higher  being,  if  he  had  not  felt  that  tempta- 
tion so  much.  The  poet  must  make  the  struggle  great  in  order 
to  make  the  self-denial  virtuous,  and  if  the  struggle  be  too  great, 
we  are  apt  to  feel  some  mixture  of  contempt.  The  internal  meta- 
physics of  a  divided  nature  are  but  an  inferior  subject  for  art,  but 
if  they  are  to  be  made  attractive,  much  else  must  be  combined 
with  them.  If  the  excellence  of  Hamlet  had  depended  on  the 
ethical  qualities  of  Hamlet,  it  would  not  have  been  the  master- 
piece of  our  literature.  He  acts  virtuously  of  course,  and  kills 
the  people  he  ought  to  kill,  but  Shakespeare  knew  that  such  good- 
ness would  not  much  interest  the  pit.  He  made  him  a  handsome 
prince  and  a  puzzling  meditative  character ;  these  secular  quali- 
ties relieve  his  moral  excellence,  and  so  he  becomes  "  nice." 
In  proportion  as  an  artist  has  to  deal  with  types  essentially  im- 
perfect, he  must  disguise  their  imperfections  ;  he  must  accumu- 
late around  them  as  many  first-rate  accessories  as  may  make  his 
readers  forget  that  they  are  themselves  second-rate.  The  sudden 
millionaires  of  the  present  day  hope  to  disguise  their  social  de- 
fects by  buying  old  places,  and  hiding  among  aristocratic  furni- 
ture ;  just  so  a  great  artist  who  has  to  deal  with  characters 
artistically  imperfect,  will  use  an  ornate  style,  will  fit  them  into 
a  scene  where  there  is  much  else  to  look  at. 

For  these  reasons  ornate  art  is,  within  the  limits,  as  legitimate 
as  pure  art.  It  does  what  pure  art  could  not  do.  The  very 
excellence  of  pure  art  confines  its  employment.  Precisely  be- 
cause it  gives  the  best  things  by  themselves  and  exactly  as  they 
are,  it  fails  when  it  is  necessary  to  describe  inferior  things  among 
other  things,  with  a  list  of  enhancements  and  a  crowd  of  accom- 
paniments that  in  reality  do  not  belong  to  it.  Illusion,  half  belief, 
unpleasant  types,  imperfect  types,  are  as  much  the  proper  sphere 
of  ornate  art,  as  an  inferior  landscape  is  the  proper  sphere  for 


WALTER  PATER 


303 


the  true  efficacy  of  moonlight.  A  really  great  landscape  needs 
sunlight  and  bears  sunlight ;  but  moonlight  is  an  equaliser  of 
beauties ;  it  gives  a  romantic  unreality  to  what  will  not  stand  the 
bare  truth.     And  just  so  does  romantic  art. 


CHARLES    LAMB 

WALTER   PATER 
\¥xova.  Appreciations,  1889.] 

Those  English  critics  who  at  the  beginning  of  the  present  cen- 
tury introduced  from  Germany,  together  with  some  other  subtle- 
ties of  thought  transplanted  hither  not  without  advantage,  the  dis- 
tinction between  the  Fancy  and  the  Imagiuatiou,  made  much  also 
of  the  cognate  distinction  between  Wit  and  Humour,  between 
that  unreal  and  transitory  mirth,  which  is  as  the  crackling  of 
thorns  under  the  pot,  and  the  laughter  which  blends  with  tears 
and  even  with  the  sublimities  of  the  imagination,  and  which,  in  its 
most  exquisite  motives,  is  one  with  pity — the  laughter  of  the 
comedies  of  Shakespeare,  hardly  less  expressive  than  his  moods 
of  seriousness  or  solemnity,  of  that  deeply  stirred  soul  of  sympathy 
in  him,  as  flowing  from  which  both  tears  and  laughter  are  alike 
genuine  and  contagious. 

This  distinction  between  wit  and  humour,  Coleridge  and  other 
kindred  critics  applied,  with  much  effect,  in  their  studies  0/  some 
of  our  older  English  writers.  And  as  the  distinction  between 
imagination  and  fancy,  made  popular  by  Wordsworth,  found  its 
best  justification  in  certain  essential  differences  of  stuff  in  Words- 
worth's own  writings,  so  this  other  critical  distinction,  between  wit 
and  humour,  finds  a  sort  of  visible  interpretation  and  instance  in 
the  character  and  writings  of  Charles  Lamb ;  —  one  who  lived 
more  consistently  than  most  writers  among  subtle  literary  theories, 
and  whose  remains  are  still  full  of  curious  interest  for  the  student 
of  literature  as  a  fine  art. 

The  author  of  the  English  Humourists  of  the  Eighteenth  Century, 
coming  to  the  humourists  of  the  nineteenth,  would  have  found,  as 
is  true  pre-eminently  of  Thackeray  himself,  the  springs  of  pity  in 
them  deepened  by  the  deeper  subjectivity,  the  intenser  and  closer 


304  CHARLES  LAMB 

living  with  itself,  which  is  characteristic  of  the  temper  of  the  later 
generation  ;  and  therewith,  the  mirth  also,  from  the  amalgam  of 
which  with  pity  humour  proceeds,  has  become,  in  Charles  Dickens, 
for  example,  freer  and  more  boisterous. 

To  this  more  high-pitched  feeling,  since  predominant  in  our 
literature,  the  writings  of  Charles  Lamb,  whose  life  occupies  the 
last  quarter  of  the  eighteenth  century  and  the  first  quarter  of  the 
nineteenth,  are  a  transition  ;  and  such  union  of  grave,  of  terrible 
even,  with  gay,  we  may  note  in  the  circumstances  of  his  Ufe,  as 
reflected  thence  into  his  work.  We  catch  the  aroma  of  a  singular, 
homely  sweetness  about  his  first  years,  spent  on  Thames'  side, 
amid  the  red  bricks  and  terraced  gardens,  with  their  rich  historical 
memories  of  old-fashioned  legal  London.  Just  above  the  poorer 
class,  deprived,  as  he  says,  of  the  "  sweet  food  of  academic  insti- 
tution," he  is  fortunate  enough  to  be  reared  in  the  classical  lan- 
guages at  an  ancient  school,  where  he  becomes  the  companion  of 
Coleridge,  as  at  a  later  period  he  was  his  enthusiastic  disciple. 
So  far,  the  years  go  by  with  less  than  the  usual  share  of  boyish 
difficulties ;  protected,  one  fancies,  seeing  what  he  was  after- 
wards, by  some  attraction  of  temper  in  the  quaint  child,  small  and 
delicate,  with  a  certain  Jewish  expression  in  his  clear,  brown  com- 
plexion, eyes  not  precisely  of  the  same  colour,  and  a  slow  walk  add- 
ing to  the  staidness  of  his  figure  ;  and  whose  infirmity  of  speech, 
increased  by  agitation,  is  partly  engaging. 

And  the  cheerfulness  of  all  this,  of  the  mere  aspect  of  Lamb's 
quiet  subsequent  life  also,  might  make  the  more  superficial  reader 
think  of  him  as  in  himself  something  slight,  and  of  his  mirth  as 
cheaply  bought.  Yet  we  know  that  beneath  this  blithe  surface 
there  was  something  of  the  fateful  domestic  horror,  of  the  beauti- 
ful heroism  and  devotedness  too,  of  old  Greek  tragedy.  His 
sister  Mary,  ten  years  his  senior,  in  a  sudden  paroxysm  of  mad- 
ness, caused  the  death  of  her  mother,  and  was  brought  to  trial 
for  what  an  overstrained  justice  might  have  construed  as  the 
greatest  of  crimes.  She  was  released  on  the  brother's  pledging 
himself  to  watch  over  her ;  and  to  this  sister,  from  the  age  of 
twenty-one,  Charles  Lamb  sacrificed  himself,  "  seeking  thence- 
forth," says  his  earliest  biographer,  "  no  connexion  which  could 
interfere  with  her  supremacy  in  his  affections,  or  impair  his  ability 


WALTER  PATER  305 

to  sustain  and  comfort  her."  The  "feverish,  romantic  tie  of 
love "  he  cast  away  in  exchange  for  the  "  charities  of  home." 
Only,  from  time  to  time,  the  madness  returned,  affecting  him  too, 
once  ;  and  we  see  the  brother  and  sister  voluntarily  yielding  to 
restraint.  In  estimating  the  humour  of  Elia,  we  must  no  more 
forget  the  strong  undercurrent  of  this  great  misfortune  and  pity, 
than  one  could  forget  it  in  his  actual  story.  So  he  becomes  the 
best  critic,  almost  the  discoverer,  of  Webster,  a  dramatist  of  genius 
so  sombre,  so  heavily  coloured,  so  7nacabre.  Rosamund  Grey, 
written  in  his  twenty-third  year,  a  story  with  something  bitter  and 
exaggerated,  an  almost  insane  fixedness  of  gloom  perceptible  in  it, 
strikes  clearly  this  note  in  his  work. 

For  himself,  and  from  his  own  point  of  view,  the  exercise  of  his 
gift,  of  his  literary  art,  came  to  gild  or  sweeten  a  life  of  monoto- 
nous labour,  and  seemed,  as  far  as  regarded  others,  no  very  impor- 
tant thing  ;  availing  to  give  them  a  little  pleasure,  and  inform  them 
a  little,  chiefly  in  a  retrospective  manner,  but  in  no  way  concerned 
with  the  turning  of  the  tides  of  the  great  world.  And  yet  this 
very  modesty,  this  unambitious  way  of  conceiving  his  work,  has 
impressed  upon  it  a  certain  exceptional  enduringness.  For  of  the 
remarkable  English  writers  contemporary  with  Lamb,  many  were 
greatly  preoccupied  with  ideas  of  practice  —  religious,  moral, 
political  —  ideas  which  have  since,  in  some  sense  or  other,  entered 
permanently  into  the  general  consciousness ;  and,  these  having 
no  longer  any  stimulus  for  a  generation  provided  with  a  different 
stock  of  ideas,  the  writings  of  those  who  spent  so  much  of  them- 
selves in  their  propagation  have  lost,  with  posterity,  something  of 
what  they  gained  by  them  in  immediate  influence.  Coleridge, 
Wordsworth,  Shelley  even  —  sharing  so  largely  in  the  unrest  of 
their  own  age,  and  made  personally  more  interesting  thereby,  yet, 
of  their  actual  work,  surrender  more  to  the  mere  course  of  time 
than  some  of  those  who  may  have  seemed  to  exercise  themselves 
hardly  at  ah  in  great  matters,  to  have  been  little  serious,  or  a  little 
indifferent,  regarding  them. 

Of  this  number  of  the  disinterested  servants  of  literature,  smaller 
in  England  than  in  France,  Charles  Lamb  is  one.  In  the  making 
of  prose  he  realises  the  principle  of  art  for  its  own  sake,  as  com- 
pletely as  Keats  in  the  making  of  verse.     And,  working  ever  close 


306  CHARLES  LAMB 

to  the  concrete,  to  the  details,  great  or  small,  of  actual  things, 
books,  persons,  and  with  no  part  of  them  blurred  to  his  vision  by 
the  intervention  of  mere  abstract  theories,  he  has  reached  an 
enduring  moral  effect  also,  in  a  sort  of  boundless  sympathy. 
Unoccupied,  as  he  might  seem,  with  great  matters,  he  is  in 
immediate  contact  with  what  is  real,  especially  in  its  caressing 
littleness,  that  littleness  in  which  there  is  much  of  the  whole  woe- 
ful heart  of  things,  and  meets  it  more  than  half-way  with  a  perfect 
understanding  of  it.  What  sudden,  unexpected  touches  of  pathos 
in  him  !  —  bearing  witness  how  the  sorrow  of  humanity,  the  Welt- 
schmerz,  the  constant  aching  of  its  wounds,  is  ever  present  with 
him  :  but  what  a  gift  also  for  the  enjoyment  of  life  in  its  subtleties, 
of  enjoyment  actually  refined  by  the  need  of  some  thoughtful 
economies  and  making  the  most  of  things  !  Little  arts  of  happi- 
ness he  is  ready  to  teach  to  others.  The  quaint  remarks  of  chil- 
dren which  another  would  scarcely  have  heard,  he  preserves  — 
little  flies  in  the  priceless  amber  of  his  Attic  wit  —  and  has  his 
"Praise  of  chimney-sweepers  "  (as  William  Blake  has  written,  with 
so  much  natural  pathos,  the  Chimney-sweeper's  Song),  valuing 
carefully  their  white  teeth,  and  fine  enjoyment  of  white  sheets  in 
stolen  sleep  at  Arundel  Castle,  as  he  tells  the  story,  anticipating 
something  of  the  mood  of  our  deep  humourists  of  the  last  genera- 
tion. His  simple  mother-pity  for  those  who  suffer  by  accident,  or 
unkindness  of  nature,  blindness  for  instance,  or  fateful  disease  of 
mind  like  his  sister's,  has  something  primitive  in  its  largeness  ; 
and  on  behalf  of  ill-used  animals  he  is  early  in  composing  a  Pity's 
Gift. 

And  if,  in  deeper  or  more  superficial  sense,  the  dead  do  care  at 
all  for  their  name  and  fame,  then  how  must  the  souls  of  Shake- 
speare and  Webster  have  been  stirred,  after  so  long  converse  with 
things  that  stopped  their  ears,  whether  above  or  below  the  soil,  at 
his  exquisite  appreciations  of  them;  the  souls  of  Titian  and  of 
Hogarth  too  ;  for,  what  has  not  been  observed  so  generally  as  the 
excellence  of  his  literary  criticism,  Charles  Lamb  is  a  fine  critic  of 
painting  also.  It  was  as  loyal,  self-forgetful  work  for  others,  for 
Shakespeare's  self  first,  for  instance,  and  then  for  Shakespeare's 
readers,  that  that  too  was  done  :  he  has  the  true  scholar's  way  of 
forgetting  himself  in  his  subject.-    For  though  "  defrauded,"  as  we 


WALTER  PATER  307 

saw,  in  his  young  years,  "  of  the  sweet  food  of  academic  institu- 
tion," he  is  yet  essentially  a  scholar,  and  all.  his  work  mainly  ret- 
rospective, as  I  said ;  his  own  sorrows,  affections,  perceptions, 
being  alone  real  to  him  of  the  present.  "  I  cannot  make  these 
present  times,"  he  says  once,  "  present  to  me.'' 

Above  all,  he  becomes  not  merely  an  expositor,  permanently 
valuable,  but  for  Englishmen  almost  the  discoverer  of  the  old 
English  drama.  "  The  book  is  such  as  I  am  glad  there  should 
be,"  he  modestly  says  of  the  Specimens  of  English  Dramatic  Poets 
who  lived  about  the  time  of  Shakespeare ;  to  which,  however,  he 
adds  in  a  series  of  notes  the  very  quintessence  of  criticism,  the 
choicest  savour  and  perfume  of  Elizabethan  poetry  being  sorted, 
and  stored  here,  with  a  sort  of  delicate  intellectual  epicureanism, 
which  has  had  the  effect  of  winning  for  these,  then  almost  forgot- 
ten, poets,  one  generation  after  another  of  enthusiastic  students. 
Could  he  but  have  known  how  fresh  a  source  of  culture  he  was 
evoking  there  for  other  generations,  through  all  those  years  in 
which,  a  little  wistfully,  he  would  harp  on  the  limitation  of  his 
time  by  business,  and  sigh  for  a  better  fortune  in  regard  to  literary 
opportunities  ! 

To  feel  strongly  the  charm  of  an  old  poet  or  moralist,  the  lit- 
erary charm  of  Burton,  for  instance,  or  Quarles,  or  The  Duchess 
of  Newcastle  ;  and  then  to  interpret  that  charm,  to  convey  it  to 
others  —  he  seeming  to  himself  but  to  hand  on  to  others,  in  mere 
humble  ministration,  that  of  which  for  them  he  is  really  the  crea- 
tor —  this  is  the  way  of  his  criticism ;  cast  off  in  a  stray  letter  • 
often,  or  passing  note,  or  lightest  essay  or  conversation.  It  is  in 
such  a  letter,  for  instance,  that  we  come  upon  a  singularly  pene- 
trative estimate  of  the  genius  and  writings  of  Defoe. 

Tracking,  with  an  attention  always  alert,  the  whole  process  of 
their  production  to  its  starting-point  in  the  deep  places  of  the 
mind,  he  seems  to  realise  the  but  half-conscious  intuitions  of 
Hogarth  or  Shakespeare;  and  develops  the  great  ruling  unities 
which  have  swayed  their  actual  work;  or  "puts  up,"  and  takes, 
the  one  morsel  of  good  stuff  in  an  old,  forgotten  writer.  Even 
in  what  he  says  casually  there  comes  an  aroma  of  old  English  ; 
noticeable  echoes,  in  chance  turn  and  phrase,  of  the  great  masters 
of  style,  the  old  masters.     Godwin,  seeing  in  quotation  a  passage 


308  CHARLES  LAMB 

iromjohn  Woodvil,  takes  it  for  a  choice  fragment  of  an  old  drama- 
tist, and  goes  to  Lamb  to  assist  him  in  finding  the  author.  His 
power  of  deUcate  imitation  in  prose  and  verse  reaches  the  length 
of  a  fine  mimicry  even,  as  in  those  last  essays  of  Elia  on  Popular 
Fallacies,  with  their  gentle  reproduction  or  caricature  of  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  showing,  the  more  completely,  his  mastery,  by  disinter- 
ested study,  of  those  elements  of  the  man  which  were  the  real  source 
of  style  in  that  great,  solemn  master  of  old  English,  who,  ready  to  say 
what  he  has  to  say  with  fearless  homeliness,  yet  continually  overawes 
one  with  touches  of  a  strange  utterance  from  worlds  afar.  For  it 
is  with  the  delicacies  of  fine  literature  especially,  its  gradations  of 
expression,  its  fine  judgment,  its  pure  sense  of  words,  of  vocabu- 
lary—  things,  alas!  dying  out  in  the  English  literature  of  the 
present,  together  with  the  appreciation  of  them  in  our  literature 
of  the  past —  that  his  literary  mission  is  chiefly  concerned.  And 
yet,  delicate,  refining,  daintily  epicurean,  as  he  may  seem,  when 
he  writes  of  giants  such  as  Hogarth  or  Shakespeare,  though  often 
but  in  a  stray  note,  you  catch  the  sense  of  veneration  with  which 
those  great  names  in  past  literature  and  art  brooded  over  his 
intelligence,  his  undiminished  impressibility  by  the  great  effects 
in  them.  Reading,  commenting  on  Shakespeare,  he  is  like  a  man 
who  walks  alone  under  a  grand  stormy  sky,  and  among  unwonted 
tricks  of  light,  when  powerful  spirits  might  seem  to  be  abroad 
upon  the  air ;  and  the  grim  humour  of  Hogarth,  as  he  analyses  it, 
rises  into  a  kind  of  spectral  grotesque ;  while  he  too  knows  the 
secret  of  fine,  significant  touches  like  theirs. 

There  are  traits,  customs,  characteristics  of  houses  and  dress, 
surviving  morsels  of  old  life,  such  as  Hogarth  has  transferred  so 
vividly  into  The  Rake''s  Progress,  or  Mai-riage  a  la  Mode,  con- 
cerning which  we  well  understand  how,  common,  uninteresting,  or 
even  worthless  in  themselves,  they  have  come  to  please  us  at  last 
as  things  picturesque,  being  set  in  relief  against  the  modes  of  our 
different  age.  Customs,  stiff  to  us,  stiff  dresses,  stiff  furniture  — 
types  of  cast-off  fashions,  left  by  accident,  and  which  no  one  ever 
meant  to  preserve  —  we  contemplate  with  more  than  good-nature, 
as  having  in  them  the  veritable  accent  of  a  time,  not  altogether  to 
be  replaced  by  its  more  solemn  and  self-conscious  deposits ;  like 
those  tricks  of  individuaUty  which  we  find  quite  tolerable  in  per- 


WALTER  PATER  309 

sons,  because  they  convey  to  us  the  secret  of  hfelike  expression, 
and  with  regard  to  which  we  are  all  to  some  extent  humourists. 
But  it  is  part  of  the  privilege  of  the  genuine  humourist  to  anticipate 
this  pensive  mood  with  regard  to  the  ways  and  things  of  his  own 
day ;  to  look  upon  the  tricks  in  manner  of  the  life  about  him  with 
that  same  refined,  purged  sort  of  vision,  which  will  come  naturally 
to  those  of  a  later  generation,  in  observing  whatever  may  have 
survived    by   chance  of  its    mere  external  habit.     Seeing  things 
always  by  the  light  of  an  understanding  more  entire  than  is  pos- 
sible for  ordinary  minds,  of  the  whole   mechanism  of  humanity, 
and  seeing  also  the  manner,  the  outward  mode  or  fashion,  always 
in  strict  connexion  with  the  spiritual  condition  which  determined 
it,  a  humourist  such  as  Charles  Lamb  anticipates  the  enchantment 
of  distance  ;  and  the  characteristics  of  places,  ranks,  habits  of  life, 
are  transfigured  for  him,  even  now  and  in  advance  of  time,  by 
poetic  light ;  justifying  what  some  might  condemn  as  mere  senti- 
mentality, in  the  effort  to  hand  on  unbroken  the  tradition  of  such 
fashion  or  accent.     "The  praise  of  beggars,"  "the  cries  of  Lon- 
don," the  traits  of  actors  just  grown  "old,"  the  spots  in  "town" 
where  the  country,  its  fresh  green  and  fresh  water,  still  lingered 
on,   one  after  another,  amidst  the  bustle  ;  the  quaint,  dimmed, 
just  played-out  farces,  he  had  relished  so  much,  coming  partly 
through  them  to  understand  the  earlier  English  theatre  as  a  thing 
once  really  ahve  ;  those  fountains  and  sun-dials  of  old  gardens,  of 
which  he  entertains  such  dainty  discourse  :  —  he  feels  the  poetry 
of  these  things,  as  the  poetry  of  things  old  indeed,  but  surviving 
as  an  actual  part  of  the  life  of  the  present,  and  as  something  quite 
different  from  the  poetry  of  things  flatly  gone  from  us  and  antique, 
which  come  back  to  us,  if  at  all,  as  entire  strangers,  like  Scott's 
old  Scotch-border  personages,  their  oaths  and  armour.     Such  gift 
of  appreciation  depends,  as  I  said,  on  the  habitual  apprehension 
of  men's  hfe  as  a  whole  —  its  organic  wholeness,  as  extending 
even  to  the  least  things  in  it  —  of  its  outward  manner  in  connex- 
ion with  its  inward  temper  ;  and  it  involves  a  fine  perception  of 
the  congruities,  the  musical  accordance  between  humanity  and  its 
environment  of  custom,  society,  personal  intercourse  ;  as  if  all  this, 
with  its  meetings,  partings,  ceremonies,  gesture,  tones  of  speech,  were 
some  delicate  instrument  on  which  an  expert  performer  is  playing. 


310  CHARLES  LAMB 

These  are  some  of  the  characteristics  of  EHa,  one  essentially  an 
essayist,  and  of  the  true  family  of  Montaigne,  "  never  judging,"  as 
he  says,  "  system-wise  of  things,  but  fastening  on  particulars  "  ;  say- 
ing all  things  as  it  were  on  chance  occasion  only,  and  by  way  of 
pastime,  yet  succeeding  thus,  "glimpse-wise,"  in  catching  and 
recording  more  frequently  than  others  "  the  gayest,  happiest  atti- 
tude of  things  "  ;  a  casual  writer  for  dreamy  readers,  yet  always 
giving  the  reader  so  much  more  than  he  seemed  to  propose. 
There  is  something  of  the  follower  of  George  Fox  about  him,  and 
the  Quaker's  belief  in  the  inward  light  coming  to  one  passive,  to 
the  mere  wayfarer,  who  will  be  sure  at  all  events  to  lose  no  light 
which  falls  by  the  way — glimpses,  suggestions,  delightful  half- 
apprehensions,  profound  thoughts  of  old  philosophers,  hints  of  the 
innermost  reason  in  things,  the  full  knowledge  of  which  is  held  in 
reserve  ;  all  the  varied  stuff,  that  is,  of  which  genuine  essays  are 
made. 

And  with  him,  as  with  Montaigne,  the  desire  of  self-portraiture 
is,  below  all  more  superficial  tendencies,  the  real  motive  in  writ- 
ing at  all  —  a  desire  closely  connected  with  that  intimacy,  that 
modern  subjectivity,  which  may  be  called  the  Alontaignesqiie  ele- 
ment in  literature.  What  he  designs  is  to  give  you  himself,  to 
acquaint  you  with  his  Hkeness  ;  but  must  do  this,  if  at  all,  indi- 
rectly, being  indeed  always  more  or  less  reserved,  for  himself  and 
his  friends  ;  friendship  counting  for  so  much  in  his  life,  that  he 
is  jealous  of  anything  that  might  jar  or  disturb  it,  even  to  the 
length  of  a  sort  of  insincerity,  to  which  he  assigns  its  quaint 
"  praise  "  ;  this  lover  of  stage  plays  significantly  welcoming  a  little 
touch  of  the  artificiality  of  play  to  sweeten  the  intercourse  of 
actual  life. 

And,  in  effect,  a  very  delicate  and  expressive  portrait  of  him 
does  put  itself  together  for  the  duly  meditative  reader.  In  indi- 
rect touches  of  his  own  work,  scraps  of  faded  old  letters,  what 
others  remembered  of  his  talk,  the  man's  likeness  emerges ;  what 
he  laughed  and  wept  at,  his  sudden  elevations,  and  longings  after 
absent  friends,  his  fine  casuistries  of  affection  and  devices  to  jog 
sometimes,  as  he  says,  the  lazy  happiness  of  perfect  love,  his 
solemn  moments  of  higher  discourse  with  the  young,  as  they  came 
across  him  on  occasion,  and  went  along  a  little  way  with  him,  the 


WALTER  PATER  31I 

sudden,  surprised  apprehension  of  beauties  in  old  literature,  reveal- 
ing anew  the  deep  soul  of  poetry  in  things,  and  withal  the  pure 
spirit  of  fun,  having  its  way  again ;  laughter,  that  most  short-lived 
of  all  things  (some  of  Shakespeare's  even  being  grown  hollow) 
wearing  well  with  him.  Much  of  all  this  comes  out  through  his 
letters,  which  may  be  regarded  as  a  department  of  his  essays.  He 
is  an  old-fashioned  letter-writer,  the  essence  of  the  old  fashion  of 
letter-writing  lying,  as  with  true  essay-writing,  in  the  dexterous 
availing  oneself  of  accident  and  circumstance,  in  the  prosecution 
of  deeper  lines  of  observation ;  although,  just  as  with  the  record 
of  his  conversation,  one  loses  something,  in  losing  the  actual 
tones  of  the  stammerer,  still  graceful  in  his  halting,  as  he  halted 
also  in  composition,  composing  slowly  and  by  fits,  "  like  a  Flemish 
painter,"  as  he  tells  us,  so  "it  is  to  be  regretted,"  says  the  editor 
of  his  letters,  "  that  in  the  printed  letters  the  reader  will  lose  the 
curious  varieties  of  writing  with  which  the  originals  abound,  and 
which  are  scrupulously  adapted  to  the  subject." 

Also,  he  was  a  true  "collector,"  delighting  in  the  personal  find- 
ing of  a  thing,  in  the  colour  an  old  book  or  print  gets  for  him  by 
the  little  accidents  which  attest  previous  ownership.  Wither's 
Emblepis,  "that  old  book  and  quaint,"  long-desired,  when  he  finds 
it  at  last,  he  values  none  the  less  because  a  child  had  coloured  the 
plates  with  his  paints.  A  lover  of  household  warmth  everywhere, 
of  that  tempered  atmosphere  which  our  various  habitations  get  by 
men's  living  within  them,  he  "  sticks  to  his  favourite  books  as  he 
did  to  his  friends,"  and  loved  the  "town,"  with  a  jealous  eye  for 
all  its  characteristics,  "  old  houses  "  coming  to  have  souls  for  him. 
The  yearning  for  mere  warmth  against  him  in  another,  makes  him 
content,  all  through  life,  with  pure  brotherliness,  "  the  most  kindly 
and  natural  species  of  love,"  as  he  says,  in  place  of  \he  passion  of 
love.  Brother  and  sister,  sitting  thus  side  by  side,  have,  of  course, 
their  anticipations  how  one  of  them  must  sit  at  last  in  the  faint 
sun  alone,  and  set  us  speculating,  as  we  read,  as  to  precisely  what 
amount  of  melancholy  really  accompanied  for  him  the  approach 
of  old  age,  so  steadily  foreseen  ;  make  us  note  also,  with  pleasure, 
his  successive  wakings  up  to  cheerful  realities,  out  of  a  too  curious 
musing  over  what  is  gone  and  what  remains,  of  life.  In  his  subtle 
capacity  for  enjoying  the  more  refined  points  of  earth,  of  human 


312  CHARLES  LAMB 

relationship,  he  could  throw  the  gleam  of  poetry  or  humour  on 
what  seemed  common  or  threadbare  ;  has  a  care  for  the  sighs,  and 
the  weary,  humdrum  preoccupations  of  .very  weak  people,  down 
to  their  httle  pathetic  "gentilities,"  even;  while,  in  the  purely 
human  temper,  he  can  write  of  death,  almost  like  Shakespeare. 

And  that  care,  through  all  his  enthusiasm  of  discovery,  for  what 
is  accustomed,  in  literature,  connected  thus  with  his  close  cHnging 
to  home  and  the  earth,  was  congruous  also  with  that  love  for  the 
accustomed  in  religion,  which  we  may  notice  in  him.  He  is  one  of 
the  last  votaries  of  that  old-world  sentiment,  based  on  the  feelings 
of  hope  and  awe,  which  may  be  described  as  the  religion  of  men 
of  letters  (as  Sir  Thomas  Browne  has  his  Religion  of  the  Physician) , 
religion  as  understood  by  the  soberer  men  of  letters  in  the  last 
century,  Addison,  Gray,  and  Johnson  ;  by  Jane  Austen  and  Thack- 
eray, later,  A  high  way  of  feeling  developed  largely  by  constant 
intercourse  with  the  great  things  of  literature,  and  extended  in'  its 
turn  to  those  matters  greater  still,  this  religion  lives,  in  the  main 
retrospectively,  in  a  system  of  received  sentiments  and  beliefs  ; 
received,  like  those  great  things  of  literature  and  art,  in  the  first 
instance,  on  the  authority  of  a  long  tradition,  in  the  course  of 
which  they  have  linked  themselves  in  a  thousand  complex  ways  to 
the  conditions  of  human  life,  and  no  more  questioned  now  than 
the  feeling  one  keeps  by  one  of  the  greatness  —  say  !  of  Shake- 
speare. For  Charles  Lamb,  such  form  of  religion  becomes  the 
solemn  background  on  which  the  nearer  and  more  exciting  objects 
of  his  immediate  experience  reheve  themselves,  borrowing  from  it 
an  expression  of  calm  ;  its  necessary  atmosphere  being  indeed  a 
profound  quiet,  that  quiet  which  has  in  it  a  kind  of  sacramental 
efficacy,  working,  we  might  say,  on  the  principle  of  the  opus  ope- 
ratiim,  almost  without  any  co-operation  of  one's  own,  towards  the 
assertion  of  the  higher  self.  And,  in  truth,  to  men  of  Lamb's 
delicately  attuned  temperament  mere  physical  stillness  has  its  full 
value ;  such  natures  seeming  to  long  for  it  sometimes,  as  for  no 
merely  negative  thing,  with  a  sort  of  mystical  sensuality. 

The  writings  of  Charles  Lamb  are  an  excellent  illustration  of  the 
value  of  reserve  in  literature.  Below  his  quiet,  his  quaintness,  his 
humour,  and  what  may  seem  the   slightness,  the  occasional  or 


WALTER  PATER  313 

accidental  character  of  his  work,  there  hes,  as  I  said  at  starting,  as 
in  his  hfe,  a  genuinely  tragic  element.  The  gloom,  reflected  at  its 
darkest  in  those  hard  shadows  Qi  Rosamund  Grey,\?,  always  there, 
though  not  always  realised  either  for  himself  or  his  readers,  and  re- 
strained always  in  utterance.  It  gives  to  those  lighter  matters  on 
the  surface  of  life  and  literature  among  which  he  for  the  most  part 
moved,  a  wonderful  force  of  expression,  as  if  at  any  moment  these 
slight  words  and  fancies  might  pierce  very  far  into  the  deeper 
soul  of  things.  In  his  writing,  as  in  his  life,  that  quiet  is  not  the 
low-flying  of  one  from  the  first  drowsy  by  choice,  and  needing  the 
prick  of  some  strong  passion  or  worldly  ambition,  to  stimulate  him 
into  all  the  energy  of  which  he  is  capable  ;  but  rather  the  reaction 
of  nature,  after  an  escape  from  fate,  dark  and  insane  as  in  old 
Greek  tragedy,  following  upon  which  the  sense  of  mere  relief  be- 
comes a  kind  of  passion,  as  with  one  who,  having  narrowly  escaped 
earthquake  or  shipwreck,  finds  a  thing  for  grateful  tears  in  just  sit- 
ting quiet  at  home,  under  the  wall,  till  the  end  of  days. 

He  felt  the  genius  of  places ;  and  I  sometimes  think  he  re- 
sembles the  places  he  knew  and  liked  best,  and  where  his  lot  fell 
—  London,  sixty- five  years  ago,  with  Covent  Garden  and  the  old 
theatres,  and  the  Temple  gardens  still  unspoiled,  Thames  gliding  ^ 
down,  and  beyond  to  north  and  south  the  fields  at  Enfield  or 
Hampton,  to  which,  "  with  their  living  trees,"  the  thoughts  wan- 
der "  from  the  hard  wood  of  the  desk  "  —  fields  fresher,  and  com- 
ing nearer  to  town  then,  but  in  one  of  which  the  present  writer 
remembers,  on  a  brooding  early  summer's  day,  to  have  heard  the 
cuckoo  for  the  first  time.  Here,  the  surface  of  things  is  certainly 
humdrum,  the  streets  dingy,  the  green  places,  where  the  child 
goes  a-maying,  tame  enough.  But  nowhere  are  things  more  apt 
to  respond  to  the  brighter  weather,  nowhere  is  there  so  much  dif- 
ference between  rain  and  sunshine,  nowhere  do  the  clouds  roll 
together  more  grandly  ;  those  quaint  suburban  pastorals  gathering 
a  certain  quality  of  grandeur  from  the  background  of  the  great 
city,  with  its  weighty  atmosphere,  and  portent  of  storm  in  the 
rapid  light  on  dome  and  bleached  stone  steeples. 

1878. 


314  "^HE   PATHETIC  FALLACY 

THE    PATHETIC    FALLACY 

JOHN  RUSKIN 
[Part  iv.,  chapter  12,  oi  Modern  Painters,  1856.] 

I.  German  dulness,  and  English  affectation,  have  of  late  much 
multiplied  among  us  the  use  of  two  of  the  most  objectionable 
words  that  were  ever  coined  by  the  troublesomeness  of  metaphysi- 
cians,—  namely,  "  Objective  "  and  "  Subjective." 

No  words  can  be  more  exquisitely,  and  in  all  points,  useless ; 
and  I  merely  speak  of  them  that  I  may,  at  once  and  for  ever,  get 
them  out  of  my  way,  and  out  of  my  reader's.  But  to  get  that 
done,  they  must  be  explained. 

The  word  "  Blue,"  say  certain  philosophers,  means  the  sensa- 
tion of  colour  which  the  human  eye  receives  in  looking  at  the 
open  sky,  or  at  a  bell  gentian. 

Now,  say  they  farther,  as  this  sensation  can  only  be  felt  when 
the  eye  is  turned  to  the  object,  and  as,  therefore,  no  such  sensa- 
tion is  produced  by  the  object  when  nobody  looks  at  it,  there- 
fore the  thing,  when  it  is  not  looked  at,  is  not  blue  ;  and  thus 
(say  they)  there  are  many  qualities  of  things  which  depend  as 
much  on  something  else  as  on  themselves.  To  be  sweet,  a  thing 
must  have  a  taster ;  it  is  only  sweet  while  it  is  being  tasted,  and 
if  the  tongue  had  not  the  capacity  of  taste,  then  the  sugar  would 
not  have  the  quality  of  sweetness. 

And  then  they  agree  that  the  qualities  of  things  which  thus 
depend  upon  our  perception  of  them,  and  upon  our  human  nature 
as  affected  by  them,  shall  be  called  Subjective ;  and  the  quali- 
ties of  things  which  they  always  have,  irrespective  of  any  other 
nature,  as  roundness  or  squareness,  shall  be  called  Objective. 

From  these  ingenious  views  the  step  is  very  easy  to  a  farther 
opinion,  that  it  does  not  much  matter  what  things  are  in  them- 
selves, but  only  what  they  are  to  us  ;  and  that  the  only  real 
truth  of  them  is  their  appearance  to,  or  effect  upon,  us.  From 
which  position,  with  a  hearty  desire  for  mystification,  and  much 
egotism,  selfishness,  shallowness,  and  impertinence,  a  philosopher 
may  easily  go  so  far  as  to  believe,  and  say,  that  everything  in 


JOHN  RUSK  IN  315 

the  world  depends  upon  his  seeing  or  thinking  of  it,  and  that 
nothing,  therefore,  exists,  but  what  he  sees  or  thinks  of. 

2.  Now,  to  get  rid  of  all  these  ambiguities  and  troublesome 
words  at  once,  be  it  observed  that  the  word  "  Blue  "  does  not 
mean  the  sensation  caused  by  a  gentian  on  the  human  eye  ;  but 
it  means  the  power  of  producing  that  sensation  ;  and  this  power 
is  always  there,  in  the  thing,  whether  we  are  there  to  experience 
it  or  not,  and  would  remain  there  though  there  were  not  left  a 
man  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  Precisely  in  the  same  way  gun- 
powder has  a  power  of  exploding.  It  will  not  explode  if  you 
put  no  match  to  it.  But  it  has  always  the  power  of  so  exploding, 
and  is  therefore  called  an  explosive  compound,  which  it  very 
positively  and  assuredly  is,  whatever  philosophy  may  say  to  the 
contrary. 

In  like  manner,  a  gentian  does  not  produce  the  sensation  of 
blueness  if  you  don't  look  at  it.  But  it  has  always  the  power  of 
doing  so ;  its  particles  being  everlastingly  so  arranged  by  its 
Maker.  And,  therefore,  the  gentian  and  the  sky  are  always 
Verily  blue,  whatever  philosophy  may  say  to  the  contrary ;  and 
if  you  do  not  see  them  blue  when  you  look  at  them,  it  is  not 
their  fault  but  yours. ^ 

3.  Hence  I  would  say  to  these  philosophers  :  If,  instead  of 
using  the  sonorous  phrase,  "  It  is  objectively  so,"  you  will  use 
the  plain  old  phrase,  "  It  is  so ;  "  and  if  instead  of  the  sonorous 
phrase,  "  It  is  subjectively  so,"  you  will  say,  in  plain  old  English, 
"  It  does  so,"  or  "  It  seems  so  to  me  ;  "  you  will,  on  the  whole, 
be  more  intelligible  to  your  fellow-creatures  :  and  besides,  if  you 
find  that  a  thing  which  generally  "  does  so  "  to  other  people  (as 
a  gentian  looks  blue  to  most  men)  does  not  so  to  you,  on  any 
particular  occasion,  you  will  not  fall  into  the  impertinence  of 
saying  that  the  thing  is  not  so,  or  did  not  so,  but  you  will  say 

1  It  is  quite  true,  that  in  all  qualities  involving  sensation,  there  may  be  a  doubt 
whether  different  people  receive  the  same  sensation  from  the  same  thing  (compare 
Part  ii.  Sec.  i,  Chap.  v.  \  6)  ;  but,  though  this  makes  such  facts  not  distinctly  ex- 
plicable, it  does  not  alter  the  facts  themselves.  I  derive  a  certain  sensation,  which 
I  call  sweetness,  from  sugar.  That  is  a  fact.  Another  person  feels  a  sensation, 
which  he  also  calls  sweetness,  from  sugar.  That  is  also  a  fact.  The  sugar's  power 
to  produce  these  two  sensations,  which  we  suppose  to  be,  and  which  are,  in  all 
probability,  very  nearly  the  same  in  both  of  us,  and,  on  the  whole,  in  the  human 
race,  is  its  sweetness. 


3l6  THE  PATHETIC  FALLACY 

simply  (what  you  will  be  all  the  better  for  speedily  finding  out) 
that  something  is  the  matter  with  you.  If  you  find  that  you 
cannot  explode  the  gunpowder,  you  will  not  declare  that  all  gun- 
powder is  subjective,  and  all  explosion  imaginary,  but  you  will' 
simply  suspect  and  declare  yourself  to  be  an  ill-made  match. 
Which,  on  the  whole,  though  there  may  be  a  distant  chance  of  a 
mistake  about  it,  is,  nevertheless,  the  wisest  conclusion  you  can 
come  to  until  farther  experiment.^ 

4.  Now,  therefore,  putting  these  tiresome  and  absurd  words 
quite  out  of  our  way,  we  may  go  on  at  our  ease  to  examine  the 
point  in  question,  —  namely,  the  difference  between  the  ordinary, 
proper,  and  true  appearances  of  things  to  us  ;  and  the  extraor- 
dinary, or  false  appearances,  when  we  are  under  the  influence  of 
emotion,  or  contemplative  fancy  ;^  false  appearances,  I  say,  as 
being  entirely  unconnected  with  any  real  power  or  character 
in  the  object,  and  only  imputed  to  it  by  us. 

For  instance  — 

"  The  spendthrift  crocus,  bursting  through  the  mould 
Naked  and  shivering,  with  his  cup  of  gold."  ^ 

This  is  very  beautiful,  and  yet  very  untrue.  The  crocus  is  not 
a  spendthrift,  but  a  hardy  plant ;    its  yellow  is  not  gold,  but 

1  In  fact  (for  I  may  as  well,  for  once,  meet  our  German  friends  in  their  own 
style),  all  that  has  been  subjected  to  us  on  this  subject  seems  object  to  this  great 
objection  ;  that  the  subjection  of  all  things  (subject  to  no  exceptions)  to  senses 
which  are,  in  us,  both  subject  and  abject,  and  objects  of  perpetual  contempt,  cannot 
but  make  it  our  ultimate  object  to  subject  ourselves  to  the  senses,  and  to  remove 
whatever  objections  existed  to  such  subjection.  So  that,  finally,  that  which  is  the 
subject  of  examination  or  object  of  attention,  uniting  thus  in  itself  the  characters  of 
subness  and  obness  (so  that,  that  which  has  no  obness  in  it  should  be  called  sub- 
subjective,  or  a  sub-subject,  and  that  which  has  no  subness  in  it  should  be  called 
upper  or  ober-objective,  or  an  ob-object)  ;  and  we  also,  who  suppose  ourselves  the  ob- 
jects of  every  arrangement,  and  are  certainly  the  subjects  of  every  sensual  impression, 
thus  uniting  in  ourselves,  in  an  obverse  or  adverse  manner,  the  characters  of  obness 
and  subness,  must  both  become  metaphysically  dejected  or  rejected,  nothing  re- 
maining in  us  objective,  but  subjectivity,  and  the  very  objectivity  of  the  object 
being  lost  in  the  abyss  of  this  subjectivity  of  the  Human. 

There  is,  however,  some  meaning  in  the  above  sentence,  if  the  reader  cares  t© 
make  it  out ;  but  in  a  pure  German  sentence  of  the  highest  style  there  is  often  none 
whatever.     See  Appendix  II,  "  German  Philosophy." 

2  Contemplative,  in  the  sense  explained  in  Part  iii,  Sec.  ii.  Chap.  iv. 

3  Holmes  (Oliver  Wendell),  quoted  by  Miss  Mitford  in  her  Recollections  of  a 
Literary  Life. 


JOHN  RUSK  IN  317 

saffron.     How  is  it  that  we  enjoy  so  much  the  having  it  put  into 
our  heads  that  it  is  anything  else  than  a  plain  crocus  ? 

It  is  an  important  question.  For,  throughout  our  past  reason- 
ings about  art,  we  have  always  found  that  nothing  could  be 
good  or  useful,  or  ultimately  pleasurable,  which  was  untrue. 
But  here  is  something  pleasurable  in  written  poetry  which  is 
nevertheless  //;/true.  And  what  is  more,  if  we  think  over  our 
favourite  poetry,  we  shall  find  it  full  of  this  kind  of  fallacy,  and 
that  we  like  it  all  the  more  for  being  so. 

5.  It  will  appear  also,  on  consideration  of  the  matter,  that 
this  fallacy  is  of  two  principal  kinds.  Either,  as  in  this  case  of 
the  crocus,  it  is  the  fallacy  of  wilful  fancy,  which  involves  no 
real  expectation  that  it  will  be  believed  ;  or  else  it  is  a  fallacy 
caused  by  an  excited  state  of  the  feelings,  making  us,  for  the 
time,  more  or  less  irrational.  Of  the  cheating  of  the  fancy  we 
shall  have  to  speak  presently ;  but,  in  this  chapter,  I  want  to 
examine  the  nature  of  the  other  error,  that  which  the  mind 
admits,  when  affected  strongly  by  emotion.  Thus,  for  instance, 
in  Altoti  Locke,  — 

"  They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam  — 
The  cruel,  crawling  foam." 

The  foam  is  not  cruel,  neither  does  it  crawl.  The  state  of  mind 
which  attributes  to  it  these  characters  of  a  living  creature  is  one 
in  which  the  reason  is  unhinged  by  grief.  All  violent  feelings 
have  the  same  effect.  They  produce  in  us  a  falseness  in  all  our 
I  impressions  of  external  things,  which  I  would  generally  charac- 
terize as  the  "  Pathetic  Fallacy." 

6.  Now  we  are  in  the  habit  of  considering  this  fallacy  as 
eminently  a  character  of  poetical  description,  and  the  temper  of 
mind  in  which  we  allow  it,  as  one  eminently  poetical,  because 
passionate.  But,  I  believe,  if  we  look  well  into  the  matter,  that 
we  shall  find  the  greatest  poets  do  not  often  admit  this  kind  of 
falseness,  —  that  it  is  only  the  second  order  of  poets  who  much 
delight  in  it.^ 

1  I  admit  two  orders  of  poets,  but  no  third ;  and  by  these  two  orders  I  mean  the 
Creative  (Shakspere,  Homer,  Dante),  and  Reflective  or  Perceptive  (Wordsworth, 
Keats,  Tennyson).  But  both  of  these  must  beyfrjArate  in  their  ranc^e,  though  their 
range  is  different ;  and  with  poetry  second-rate  in  quality  no  one  ought  to  be  allowed 


3l8  THE  PATHETIC  FALLACY 

Thus,  when  Dante  describes  the  spirits  falling  from  the  bank 
of  Acheron  "  as  dead  leaves  flutter  from  a  bough,"  he  gives  the 
most  perfect  image  possible  of  their  utter  lightness,  feebleness, 
passiveness,  and  scattering  agony  of  despair,  without,  however, 
for  an  instant  losing  his  own  clear  perception  that  these  are 
souls,  and  those  are  leaves  :  he  makes  no  confusion  of  one  with 
the  other.     But  when  Coleridge  speaks  of 

"  The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 
That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can," 

he  has  a  morbid,  that  is  to  say,  a  so  far  false,  idea  about  the 
leaf ;  he  fancies  a  life  in  it,  and  will,  which  there  are  not ;  con- 
fuses its  powerlessness  with  choice,  its  fading  death  with  merri- 
ment, and  the  wind  that  shakes  it  with  music.  Here,  however, 
there  is  some  beauty,  even  in  the  morbid  passage ;  but  take  an 
instance  in  Homer  and  Pope.  Without  the  knowledge  of 
Ulysses,  Elpenor,  his  youngest  follower,  has  fallen  from  an 
upper  chamber  in  the  Circean  palace,  and  has  been  left  dead, 
unmissed  by  his  leader,  or  companions,  in  the  haste  of  their 
departure.  They  cross  the  sea  to  the  Cimmerian  land ;  and 
Ulysses  sumtnons  the  shades  from  Tartarus.  The  first  which 
appears  is  that  of  the  lost  Elpenor.  Ulysses,  amazed,  and  in 
exactly  the  spirit  of  bitter  and  terrified  lightness  which  is  seen  in 
Hamlet}  addresses  the  spirit  with  the  simple,  startled  words  :  — 

to  trouble  mankind.  There  is  quite  enough  of  the  best,  —  much  more  than  we 
can  ever  read  or  enjoy  in  the  length  of  a  life ;  and  it  is  a  literal  wrong  or  sin  in  any 
person  to  encumber  us  with  inferior  work.  I  have  no  patience  with  apologies 
made  by  young  pseudo-poets,  "  that  they  believe  there  is  some  good  in  what  they 
have  written;  that  they  hope  to  do  better  in  time,"  etc.  Some  goo^\  If  there  is 
not  all  good,  there  is  no  good.  If  they  ever  hope  to  do  better,  why  do  they  trouble 
us  now?  Let  them  rather  courageously  burn  all  they  have  done,  and  wait  for  the 
better  days.  There  are  few  men,  ordinarily  educated,  who  in  moments  of  strong 
feeling  could  not  strike  out  a  poetical  thought,  and  afterwards  polish  it  so  as  to  be 
presentable.  But  men  of  sense  know  better  than  to  so  waste  their  time  ;  and  those 
who  sincerely  love  poetry,  know  the  touch  of  the  master's  hand  on  the  chords  too 
well  to  fumble  among  them  after  him.  Nay,  more  than  this;  all  inferior  poetry  is 
an  injury  to  the  good,  inasmuch  as  it  takes  away  the  freshness  of  rhymes,  blunders 
upon  and  gives  a  wretched  commonalty  to  good  thoughts,  and,  in  general,  adds  to 
the  weight  of  human  weariness  in  a  most  woful  and  culpable  manner.  There  are 
few  thoughts  likely  to  come  across  ordinary  men,  which  have  not  already  been 
expressed  by  greater  men  in  the  best  possible  way ;  and  it  is  a  wiser,  more  generous, 
more  noble  thing  to  remember  and  point  out  the  perfect  words,  than  to  invent 
poorer  ones,  wherewith  to  encumber  temporarily  the  world. 
1  "  Well  said,  old  mole  !  can'st  work  i'  the  ground  so  fast  ?  " 


JOHN  RUSK  IN  319 

"Elpenor!  How  earnest  thou  under  the  shadowy  darkness?  Hast  thou 
come  faster  on  foot  than  I  in  my  black  ship?" 

Which  Pope  renders  thus  :  — 

"O,  say,  what  angry  power  Elpenor  led 
To  glide  in  shades,  and  wander  with  the  dead? 
How  could  thy  soul,  by  realms  and  seas  disjoined, 
Outfly  the  nimble  sail,  and  leave  the  lagging  wind?" 

I  sincerely  hope  the  reader  finds  no  pleasure  here,  either  in  the 
nimbleness  of  the  sail,  or  the  laziness  of  the  wind  !  And  yet 
how  is  it  that  these  conceits  are  so  painful  now,  when  they  have 
been  pleasant  to  us  in  the  other  instances  ? 

7.  For  a  very  simple  reason.  They  are  not  a  pathetic  fallacy 
at  all,  for  they  are  put  into  the  mouth  of  the  wrong  passion  —  a 
passion  which  never  could  possibly  have  spoken  them  —  ago- 
nized curiosity.  Ulysses  wants  to  know  the  facts  of  the  matter  ; 
and  the  very  last  thing  his  mind  could  do  at  the  moment  would 
be  to  pause,  or  suggest  in  any  wise  what  was  not  a  fact.  The 
delay  in  the  first  three  lines,  and  conceit  in  the  last,  jar  vipon  us 
instantly,  like  the  most  frightful  discord  in  music.  No  poet  of 
true  imaginative  power  could  possibly  have  written  the  passage.^ 

Therefore,  we  see  that  the  spirit  of  truth  must  guide  us  in 
some  sort,  even  in  our  enjoyment  of  fallacy.  Coleridge's  fal- 
lacy has  no  discord  in  it,  but  Pope's  has  set  our  teeth  on  edge. 
Without  farther  questioning,  I  will  endeavour  to  state  the  main 
bearings  of  this  matter. 

8.  The  temperament  which  admits  the  pathetic  fallacy  is,  as 
T  said  above,  that  of  a  mind  and  body  in  some  sort  too  weak  to 
deal  fully  with  what  is  before  them  or  upon  them  ;  borne  away, 

1  It  is  worth  while  comparing  the  way  a  similar  question  is  put  by  the  exquisite 
sincerity  of  Keats :  — 

"  He  wept,  and  his  bright  tears 
Went  trickling  down  the  golden  bow  he  held. 
Thus,  with  half-shut,  suffused  eyes,  he  stood; 
While  from  beneath  some  cumb'rous  boughs  hard  by, 
With  solemn  step,  an  awful  goddess  came. 
And  there  was  purport  in  her  looks  for  him, 
Which  he  with  eager  guess  began  to  read  : 
Perplexed  the  while,  melodiously  he  said, 
' How  cam'st thou  over  the  unfooted sea ?'" 


320  THE  PATHETIC  FALLACY 

or  over-clouded,  or  over-dazzled  by  emotion ;  and  it  is  a  more 
or  less  noble  state,  according  to  the  force  of  the  emotion  which 
has  induced  it.  For  it  is  no  credit  to  a  man  that  he  is  not  mor- 
bid or  inaccurate  in  his  perceptions,  when  he  has  no  strength 
of  feeling  to  warp  them  ;  and  it  is  in  general  a  sign  of  higher 
capacity  and  stand  in  the  ranks  of  being,  that  the  emotions 
should  be  strong  enough  to  vanquish,  partly,  the  intellect,  and 
make  it  believe  what  they  choose.  But  it  is  still  a  grander  con- 
dition when  the  intellect  also  rises,  till  it  is  strong  enough  to 
assert  its  rule  against,  or  together  with,  the  utmost  efforts  of  the 
passions  ;  and  the  whole  man  stands  in  an  iron  glow,  white  hot, 
perhaps,  but  still  strong,  and  in  no  wise  evaporating ;  even  if  he 
melts,  losing  none  of  his  weight. 

So,  then,  we  have  the  three  ranks  :  the  man  who  perceives 
rightly,  because  he  does  not  feel,  and  to  whom  the  primrose 
is  very  accurately  the  primrose,  because  he  does  not  love  it. 
Then,  secondly,  the  man  who  perceives  wrongly,  because  he 
feels,  and  to  whom  the  primrose  is  anything  else  than  a  prim- 
rose :  a  star,  or  a  sun,  or  a  fairy's  shield,  or  a  forsaken  maiden. 
And  then,  lastly,  there  is  the  man  who  perceives  rightly  in  spite 
of  his  feelings,  and  to  whom  the  primrose  is  for  ever  nothing 
else  than  itself  —  a  little  flower,  apprehended  in  the  very  plain 
and  leafy  fact  of  it,  whatever  and  how  many  soever  the  associa- 
tions and  passions  may  be,  that  crowd  around  it.  And,  in 
general,  these  three  classes  may  be  rated  in  comparative  order, 
as  the  men  who  are  not  poets  at  all,  and  the  poets  of  the  second 
order,  and  the  poets  of  the  first ;  only,  however  great  a  man 
may  be,  there  are  always  some  subjects  which  ought  to  throw 
him  off  his  balance ;  some,  by  which  his  poor  human  capacity 
of  thought  should  be  conquered,  and  brought  into  the  inac- 
curate and  vague  state  of  perception,  so  that  the  language  of 
the  highest  inspiration  becomes  broken,  obscure,  and  wild  in 
metaphor,  resembling  that  of  the  weaker  man,  overborne  by 
weaker  things. 

9.  And  thus,  in  full,  there  are  four  classes:  the  men  who  feel 
nothing,  and  therefore  see  truly  ;  the  men  whq  feel  strongly, 
think  weakly,  and  see  untruly  (second  order  of  poets) ;  the  men 
who  feel  strongly,  think  strongly,  and  see  truly  (first  order  of 


JOHN  RUSK  IN  321 

poets)  ;  and  the  men  who,  strong  as  human  creatures  can  be, 
are  yet  submitted  to  influences  stronger  than  they,  and  see  in  a 
sort  untruly,  because  what  they  see  is  inconceivably  above  them. 
This  last  is  the  usual  condition  of  prophetic  inspiration. 

10.  I  separate  these  classes,  in  order  that  their  character  may 
be  clearly  understood  ;  but  of  course  they  are  united  each  to  the 
other  by  imperceptible  transitions,  and  the  same  mind,  accord- 
ing to  the  influences  to  which  it  is  subjected,  passes  at  different 
times  into  the  various  states.  Still,  the  difterence  between  the 
great  and  less  man  is,  on  the  whole,  chiefly  in  this  point  of  alter- 
ability.  That  is  to  say,  the  one  knows  too  much,  and  perceives 
and  feels  too  much  of  the  past  and  future,  and  of  all  things 
beside  and  around  that  which  immediately  affects  him,  to  be  in 
any  wise  shaken  by  it.  His  mind  is  made  up  ;  his  thoughts  have 
an  accustomed  current ;  his  M'ays  are  stedfast ;  it  is  not  this  or 
that  new  sight  which  will  at  once  unbalance  him.  He  is  tender 
to  impression  at  the  surface,  like  a  rock  with  deep  moss  upon  it ; 
but  there  is  too  much  mass  of  him  to  be  moved.  The  smaller 
man,  with  the  same  degree  of  sensibility,  is  at  once  carried  off 
his  feet ;  he  wants  to  do  something  he  did  not  want  to  do  before  ; 
he  views  all  the  universe  in  a  new  light  through  his  tears  ;  he  is 
gay  or  enthusiastic,  melancholy  or  passionate,  as  things  come 
and  go  to  him.  Therefore  the  high  creative  poet  might  even  be 
thought,  to  a  great  extent,  impassive  (as  shallow  people  think 
Dante  stern),  receiving  indeed  all  feelings  to  the  full,  but  having 
a  great  centre  of  reflection  and  knowledge  in  which  he  stands 
serene,  and  watches  the  feeling,  as  it  were,  from  far  off. 

Dante,  in  his  most  intense  moods,  has  entire  command  of  him- 
self, and  can  look  around  calmly,  at  all  moments,  for  the  image 
or  the  word  that  will  best  tell  what  he  sees  to  the  upper  or  lower 
world.  But  Keats  and  Tennyson,  and  the  poets  of  the  second 
order,  are  generally  themselves  subdued  by  the  feelings  under 
which  they  write,  or,  at  least,  write  as  choosing  to  be  so,  and 
therefore  admit  certain  expressions  and  modes  of  thought  which 
are  in  some  sort  diseased  or  false. 

11.  Now  so  long  as  we  see  that  ihe.feelmg  is  true,  w^e  pardon, 
or  are  even  pleased  by,  the  confessed  fallacy  of  sight  which  it 
induces :  we  are  pleased,  for  instance,  with  those  lines  of  Kings- 

y 


322  THE  PATHETIC  FALLACY 

ley's,  above  quoted,  not  because  they  fallaciously  describe  foam, 
but  because  they  faithfully  describe  sorrow.  But  the  moment 
the  mind  of  the  speaker  becomes  cold,  that  moment  every  such 
expression  becomes  untrue,  as  being  for  ever  untrue  in  the  external 
facts.  And  there  is  no  greater  baseness  in  literature  than  the 
habit  of  using  these  metaphorical  expressions  in  cool  blood.  An 
inspired  writer,  in  full  impetuosity  of  passion,  may  speak  wisely 
and  truly  of  "  raging  waves  of  the  sea,  foaming  out  their  own 
shame";  but  it  is  only  the  basest  writer  who  cannot  speak  of 
the  sea  without  talking  of  "  raging  waves,"  "  remorseless  floods," 
"  ravenous  billows,"  etc. ;  and  it  is  one  of  the  signs  of  the 
highest  power  in  a  writer  to  check  all  such  habits  of  thought, 
and  to  keep  his  eyes  fixed  firmly  on  the  pure  fact,  out  of  which 
if  any  feeling  comes  to  him  or  his  reader,  he  knows  it  must  be  a 
true  one. 

To  keep  to  the  waves,  I  forget  who  it  is  who  represents  a  man 
in  despair,  desiring  that  his  body  may  be  cast  into  the  sea, 

"  Whose  chajtging  mound,  and  foam  that  passed  away. 
Might  mock  the  eye  that  questioned  where  I  lay." 

Observe,  there  is  not  a  single  false  or  even  overcharged  expres- 
sion. "  Mound  "  of  the  sea-wave  is  perfectly  simple  and  true  ; 
"  changing  "  is  as  familiar  as  may  be  ;  "  foam  that  passed  away," 
strictly  literal ;  and  the  whole  line  descriptive  of  the  reality  with 
a  degree  of  accuracy  which  I  know  not  any  other  verse,  in  the 
range  of  poetry,  that  altogether  equals.  For  most  people  have 
not  a  distinct  idea  of  the  clumsiness  and  massiveness  of  a  large 
wave.  The  word  "  wave  "  is  used  too  generally  of  ripples  and 
breakers,  and  bendings  in  light  drapery  or  grass  :  it  does  not  by 
itself  convey  a  perfect  image.  But  the  word  "  mound  "  is  heavy, 
large,  dark,  definite ;  there  is  no  mistaking  the  kind  of  wave 
meant,  nor  missing  the  sight  of  it.  Then  the  term  "  changing  " 
has  a  peculiar  force  also.  Most  people  think  of  waves  as  rising 
and  falling.  But  if  they  look  at  the  sea  carefully,  they  will  per- 
ceive that  the  waves  do  not  rise  and  fall.  They  change.  Change 
both  place  and  form,  but  they  do  not  fall;  one  wave  goes  on, 
and  on,  and  still  on  ;  now  lower,  now  higher,  now  tossing  its 
mane  like  a  horse,  now  building  itself  together  like  a  wall,  now 


JOHN  RUSK  IN  323 

shaking,  now  steady,  but  still  the  same  wave,  till  at  last  it  seems 
struck  by  something,  and  changes,  one  knows  not  how, — becomes 
another  wave. 

The  close  of  the  line  insists  on  this  image,  and  paints  it  still 
more  perfectly,  —  "  foam  that  passed  away."  Not  merely  melt- 
ing, disappearing,  but  passing  on,  out  of  sight,  on  the  career  of 
the  wave.  Then,  having  put  the  absolute  ocean  fact  as  far  as 
he  may  before  our  eyes,  the  poet  leaves  us  to  feel  about  it  as  we 
may,  and  to  trace  for  ourselves  the  opposite  fact,  —  the  image  of 
the  green  mounds  that  do  not  change,  and  the  white  and  written 
stones  that  do  not  pass  away ;  and  thence  to  follow  out  also  the 
associated  images  of  the  calm  life  with  the  quiet  grave,  and  the 
despairing  life  with  the  fading  foam  :  — 

"  Let  no  man  move  his  bones." 

"As  for  Samaria,  her  king  is  cut  off  like  the  foam  upon  the  water." 

But  nothing  of  this  is  actually  told  or  pointed  out,  and  the 
expressions,  as  they  stand,  are  perfectly  severe  and  accurate, 
utterly  uninfluenced  by  the  firmly  governed  emotion  of  the  writer. 
Even  the  word  "  mock  "  is  hardly  an  exception,  as  it  may  stand 
merely  for  "  deceive  "  or  "defeat,"  without  implying  any  imper- 
sonation of  the  waves. 

12.  It  may  be  well,  perhaps,  to  give  one  or  two  more  instances 
to  show  the  peculiar  dignity  possessed  by  all  passages  which 
thus  limit  their  expression  to  the  pure  fact,  and  leave  the  hearer 
to  gather  what  he  can  from  it.  Here  is  a  notable  one  from  the 
Iliad.  Helen,  looking  from  the  Scsean  gate  of  Troy  over  the 
Grecian  host,  and  telling  Priam  the  names  of  its  captains,  says 
at  last :  — 

« I  see  all  the  other  dark-eyed  Greeks;  but  two  I  cannot  see,  —  Castor  and 
Pollux,  —  whom  one  mother  bore  with  me.  Have  they  not  followed  from  fair 
Lacedtemon,  or  have  they  indeed  come  in  their  sea-wandering  ships,  but  now 
will  not  enter  into  the  battle  of  men,  fearing  the  shame  and  the  scorn  that  is 
in  Me?" 

Then  Homer:  — 

"So  she  spoke.  But  them,  already,  the  life-giving  earth  possessed,  there 
in  Laceda^mon,  in  the  dear  fatherland." 


324  THE  PATHETIC  FALLACY 

'  Note,  here,  the  high  poetical  truth  carried  to  the  extreme. 
The  poet  has  to  speak  of  the  earth  in  sadness,  but  he  will 
not  let  that  sadness  affect  or  change  his  thoughts  of  it.  No ; 
though  Castor  and  Pollux  be  dead,  yet  the  earth  is  our  mother 
still,  fruitful,  life-giving.  These  are  the  facts  of  the  thing.  I 
see  nothing  else  than  these.     Make  what  you  will  of  them. 

13.  Take  another  very  notable  instance  from  Casimir  de  la 
Vigne's  terrible  ballad,  "La  Toilette  de  Constance."  I  must 
quote  a  few  lines  out  of  it  here  and  there,  to  enable  the  reader 
who  has  not  the  book  by  him,  to  understand  its  close. 

"  Vite,  Anna,  vite  ;   au  miroir 

Plus  vite,  Anna.     L'heure  s'avance, 
Et  je  vais  au  bal  ce  soir 

Chez  I'ambassadeur  de  France. 

Y  pensez-vous,  ils  sont  fanes,  ces  ncEuds, 

lis  sont  d'hier;   mon  Dieu,  comme  tout  passe! 
Que  du  reseau  qui  retient  mes  cheveux 

Les  glands  d'azur  retombent  avec  grace. 
Plus  haut !     Plus  bas !  Vous  ne  comprenez  rien ! 

Que  sur  mon  front  ce  saphir  etincelle: 
Vous  me  piquez,  maladroite.     Ah,  c'est  bien, 

Bien,  —  chere  Anna !     Je  t'aime,  je  suis  belle. 

Celui  qu'en  vain  je  voudrais  oublier 

(Anna,  ma  robe)  11  y  sera,  j'espere. 
(Ah,  ti !  profane,  est-ce  la  mon  collier? 

Quoi !  ces  grains  d'or  benits  par  le  Saint-Pere !  ) 
II  y  sera  ;   Dieu,  s'il  pressait  ma  main. 

En  y  pensant,  a  peine  je  respire  : 
Pere  Anselmo  doit  m'entendre  demain, 

Comment  ferai-je,  Anna,  pour  tout  lui  dire? 

Vite  un  coup  d'ceil  au  miroir, 

Le  dernier.  — J'ai  I'assurance 
Qu'on  va  m'adorer  ce  soir 

Chez  I'ambassadeur  de  France. 

Pres  du  foyer,  Constance  s'admirait. 

Dieu  !  sur  sa  robe  il  vole  une  etincelle  ! 
Au  feu  !     Courez  !  Quand  I'espoir  I'enivrait 

Tout  perdre  ainsi !     Quoi !  Mourir, —  et  si  belle  ! 


JOHN  RUSKIN  325 

L'horrible  feu  ronge  avec  voiupte 

Ses  bras,  son  sein,  et  I'entoure,  et  s'eleve, 

Et  sans  pitie  devore  sa  beaute, 

Ses  dbchuit  ans,  helas,  et  son  doux  reve ! 

Adieu,  bal,  plaisir,  amour  ! 

On  disait,  Pauvre  Constance ! 
Et  I'on  clansait,  jusqu'au  jour, 

Chez  I'ambassadeur  de  France." 

Yes,  that  is  the  fact  of  it.  Right  or  wrong,  the  poet  does  not 
say.  What  you  may  think  about  it,  he  does  not  know.  He  has 
nothing  to  do  with  that.  There  he  the  ashes  of  the  dead  girl 
in  her  chamber.  There  they  danced,  till  the  morning,  at  the 
Ambassador's  of  France.     Make  what  you  will  of  it. 

If  the  reader  will  look  through  the  ballad,  of  which  I  have 
quoted  only  about  the  third  part,  he  will  find  that  there  is  not, 
from  beginning  to  end  of  it,  a  single  poetical  (so  called)  expres- 
sion, except  in  one  stanza.  The  girl  speaks  as  simple  prose  as 
may  be ;  there  is  not  a  word  she  would  not  have  actually  used 
as  she  was  dressing.  The  poet  stands  by,  impassive  as  a  statue, 
recording  her  words  just  as  they  come.  At  last  the  doom  seizes 
her,  and  in  the  very  presence  of  death,  for  an  instant,  his  own 
emotions  conquer  him.  He  records  no  longer  the  facts  only, 
but  the  facts  as  they  seem  to  him.  The  fire  gnaws  with  volup- 
tuousness —  without  pity.  It  is  soon  past.  The  fate  is  fixed 
for  ever  ;  and  he  retires  into  his  pale  and  crystalline  atmosphere 
of  truth.     He  closes  all  with  the  calm  veracity, 

"  They  said,  '  Poor  Constance  ! '  " 

14.  Now  in  this  there  is  the  exact  type  of  the  consummate 
poetical  temperament.  For,  be  it  clearly  and  constantly  remem- 
bered, that  the  greatness  of  a  poet  depends  upon  the  two  facul- 
ties, acuteness  of  feeling,  and  command  of  it.  A  poet  is  great, 
first  in  proportion  to  the  strength  of  his  passion,  and  then,  that 
strength  being  granted,  in  proportion  to  his  government  of  it; 
there  being,  however,  always  a  point  beyond  which  it  would  be 
inhuman  and  monstrous  if  he  pushed  this  government,  and, 
therefore,  a  point  at  which  all  feverish  and  wild  fancy  becomes 


326  THE  PATHETIC  FALLACY 

just  and  true.  Thus  the  destruction  of  the  kingdom  of  Assyria 
cannot  be  contemplated  firmly  by  a  prophet  of  Israel.  The  fact 
is  too  great,  too  wonderful.  It  overthrows  him,  dashes  him  into 
a  confused  element  of  dreams.  All  the  world  is,  to  his  stunned 
thought,  full  of  strange  voices.  "  Yea,  the  fir-trees  rejoice  at 
thee,  and  the  cedars  of  Lebanon,  saying,  '  Since  thou  art  gone 
down  to  the  grave,  no  feller  is  come  up  against  us.' "  So,  still 
more,  the  thought  of  the  presence  of  Deity  cannot  be  borne 
without  this  great  astonishment.  "  The  mountains  and  the  hills 
shall  break  forth  before  you  into  singing,  and  all  the  trees  of  the 
field  shall  clap  their  hands." 

15.  But  by  how  much  this  feeling  is  noble  when  it  is  justified 
by  the  strength  of  its  cause,  by  so  much  it  is  ignoble  when  there 
is  not  cause  enough  for  it ;  and  beyond  all  other  ignobleness  is 
the  mere  affectation  of  it,  in  hardness  of  heart.  Simply  bad 
writing  may  almost  always,  as  above  noticed,  be  known  by  its 
adoption  of  these  fanciful  metaphorical  expressions,  as  a  sort  of 
current  coin  ;  yet  there  is  even  a  worse,  at  least  a  more  harmful, 
condition  of  writing  than  this,  in  which  such  expressions  are  not 
ignorantly  and  feelinglessly  caught  up,  but,  by  some  master, 
skilful  in  handling,  yet  insincere,  deliberately  wrought  out  with 
chill  and  studied  fancy ;  as  if  we  should  try  to  make  an  old  lava 
stream  look  red-hot  again,  by  covering  it  with  dead  leaves,  or 
white-hot,  with  hoar  frost. 

When  Young  is  lost  in  veneration,  as  he  dwells  on  the  char- 
acter of  a  truly  good  and  holy  man,  he  permits  himself  for  a 
moment  to  be  overborne  by  the  feeling  so  far  as  to  exclaim  — 

"  Where  shall  I  find  him  ?  angels,  tell  me  where. 
You  know  him;   he  is  near  you;    point  him  out. 
Shall  I  see  glories  beaming  from  his  brow, 
Or  trace  his  footsteps  by  the  rising  flowers?" 

This  emotion  has  a  worthy  cause,  and  is  thus  true  and  right 
But  now  hear  the  cold-hearted  Pope  say  to  a  shepherd  girl :  — 

"  Where'er  you  walk,  cool  gales  shall  fan  the  glade  ! 
Trees,  where  you  sit,  shall  crowd  into  a  shade; 
Your  praise  the  birds  shall  chant  in  every  grove, 
And  winds  shall  waft  it  to  the  powers  above. 


JOHN  RUSK  IN  32; 

But  would  you  sing,  and  rival  Orpheus'  strain, 
The  wondering  forests  soon  should  dance  again; 
The  moving  mountains  hear  the  powerful  call, 
And  headlong  streams  hang,  listening,  in  their  fall." 

This  is  not,  nor  could  it  for  a  moment  be  mistaken  for,  the 
language  of  pas.sion.  It  is  simple  falsehood,  uttered  by  hypoc- 
risy ;  definite  absurdity,  rooted  in  affectation,  and  coldly  asserted 
in  the  teeth  of  nature  and  fact.  Passion  will  indeed  go  far  in 
deceiving  itself;  but  it  must  be  a  strong  passion,  not  the  simple 
wish  of  a  lover  to  tempt  his  mistress  to  sing.  Compare  a  very 
closely  parallel  passage  in  Wordsworth,  in  which  the  lover  has 
lost  his  mistress  :  — 

"Three  years  had  Barbara  in  her  grave  been  laid, 
When  thus  his  moan  he  made :  — 

'  Oh,  move,  thou  cottage,  from  behind  yon  oak, 

Or  let  the  ancient  tree  uprooted  lie, 
That  in  some  other  way  yon  smoke 

May  mount  into  the  sky. 
If  still  behind  yon  pine-tree's  ragged  bough. 

Headlong,  the  waterfall  must  come, 

Oh,  let  it,  then,  be  dumb  — 
Be  anything,  sweet  stream,  but  that  which  thou  art  now.'" 

Here  is  a  cottage  to  be  moved,  if  not  a  mountain,  and  a  water- 
fall to  be  silent,  if  it  is  not  to  hang  listening :  but  with  what  dif- 
ferent relation  to  the  mind  that  contemplates  them  !  Here,  in 
the  extremity  of  its  agony,  the  soul  cries  out  wildly  for  relief, 
which  at  the  same  moment  it  partly  knows  to  be  impossible,  but 
partly  believes  possible,  in  a  vague  impression  that  a  miracle 
7night  be  wrought  to  give  relief  even  to  a  less  sore  distress,  — 
that  nature  is  kind,  and  God  is  kind,  and  that  grief  is  strong : 
it  knows  not  well  what  is  possible  to  such  grief.  To  silence  a 
stream,  to  move  a  cottage  wall,  —  one  might  think  it  could  do 
as  much  as  that ! 

16.  I  believe  these  instances  are  enough  to  illustrate  the  main 
point  I  insist  upon  respecting  the  pathetic  fallacy,  —  that  so  far 
as  it  is  a  fallacy,  it  is  always  the  sign  of  a  morbid  state  of  mind, 
Jind  comparatively  of  a  weak  one.     Even  in  the  most  inspired 


328  THE  PATHETIC  FALLACY 

prophet  it  is  a  sign  of  the  incapacity  of  his  human  sight  or 
thought  to  bear  what  has  been  revealed  to  it.  In  ordinary 
poetry,  if  it  is  found  in  the  thoughts  of  the  poet  himself,  it  is  at 
once  a  sign  of  his  belonging  to  the  inferior  school ;  if  in  the 
thoughts  of  the  characters  imagined  by  him,  it  is  right  or  wrong 
according  to  the  genuineness  of  the  emotion  from  which  it  springs  ; 
always,  however,  implying  necessarily  some  degree  of  weakness 
in  the  character. 

Take  two  most  exquisite  instances  from  master  hands.  The 
Jessy  of  Shenstone,  and  the  Elleri  of  Wordsworth,  have  both 
been  betrayed  and  deserted.  Jessy,  in  the  course  of  her  most 
touching  complaint,  says  :  — 

"  If  through  the  garden's  flowery  tribes  I  stray, 

Where  bloom  the  jasmines  that  could  once  allure, 
•  Hope  not  to  find  delight  in  us,'  they  say, 
'  For  we  are  spotless,  Jessy,  we  are  pure.' " 

Compare  with  this  some  of  the  words  of  Ellen :  — 

" '  Ah,  why,'  said  Ellen,  sighing  to  herself, 
'  Why  do  not  words,  and  kiss,  and  solemn  pledge. 
And  nature,  that  is  kind  in  woman's  breast, 
And  reason,  that  in  man  is  wise  and  good, 
And  fear  of  Him  who  is  a  righteous  Judge, — 
Why  do  not  these  prevail  for  human  life, 
To  keep  two  hearts  together,  that  began 
Their  springtime  with  one  love,  and  that  have  need 
Of  mutual  pity  and  forgiveness,  sweet 
To  grant,  or  be  received;   while  that  poor  bird-*— 
O,  come  and  h^ar  him  !     Thou  who  hast  to  me 
Been  faithless,  hear  him; — though  a  lowly  creature, 
One  of  God's  simple  children,  that  yet  know  not 
The  Universal  Parent,  hotv  he  sings ! 
As  if  he  wished  the  firmament  of  heaven 
Should  listen,  and  give  back  to  him  the  voice 
Of  his  triumphant  constancy  and  love. 
The  proclamation  that  he  makes,  how  far 
His  darkness  doth  transcend  our  fickle  light.' " 

The  perfection  of  both  these  passages,  as  far  as  regards  truth 
and  tenderness  of  imagination  in  the  two  poets,  is  quite  insu- 


JOHN  IWSKIN  .329 

perable.  But,  of  the  two  characters  imagined,  Jessy  is  weaker 
than  Ellen,  exactly  in  so  far  as  something  appears  to  her  to  be 
in  nature  which  is  not.  The  flowers  do  not  really  reproach  her. 
God  meant  them  to  comfort  her,  not  to  taunt  her ;  they  would 
do  so  if  she  saw  them  rightly. 

Ellen,  on  the  other  hand,  is  quite  above  the  slightest  erring 
emotion.  There  is  not  the  barest  film  of  fallacy  in  all  her 
thoughts.  She  reasons  as  calmly  as  if  she  did  not  feel.  And, 
although  the  singing  of  the  bird  suggests  to  her  the  idea  of  its 
desiring  to  be  heard  in  heaven,  she  does  not  for  an  instant  admit 
any  veracity  in  the  thought.  "As  if,"  she  says,  —  "  I  know  he 
means  nothing  of  the  kind  ;  but  it  does  verily  seem  as  if."  The 
reader  will  find,  by  examining  the  rest  of  the  poem,  that  Ellen's 
character  is  throughout  consistent  in  this  clear  though  passionate 
strength.^ 

It  then  being,  I  hope,  now  made  clear  to  the  reader  in  all  re- 
spects that  the  pathetic  fallacy  is  powerful  only  so  far  as  it  is 
pathetic,  feeble  so  far  as  it  is  fallacious,  and,  therefore,  that  the 
dominion  of  Truth  is  entire,  over  this,  as  oyer  every  other  natu- 
ral and  just  state  of  the  human  mind,  we  may  go  on  to  the  sub- 
ject for  the  dealing  with  which  this  prefatory  inquiry  became 
necessary ;  and  why  necessary,  we  shall  see  forthwith. 


1  I  cannot  quit  this  subject  without  giving  two  more  instances,  both  exquisite,  of 
the  pathetic  fallacy,  which  I  have  just  come  upon,  in  Maude  :  — 

"  For  a  great  speculation  had  fail'd  ; 
And  ever  he  mutter'd  and  madden'd,  and  ever  wann'd  with  despair; 
And  out  he  walk'd,  when  the  wind  like  a  broken  worldling  wail'd. 
And  Xhsjlyhig gold  of  the  ruiii'd  ivoodlands  drove  thro'  the  air." 

"There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
The  red  rose  cries,  '  She  is  near,  she  is  near!* 

And  the  'vhite  rose  weeps,  '  She  is  late.' 
The  larkspur  listens,  '  I  hear,  1  hear  1 ' 
And  the  lily  whispers,  '  I  wait.'  " 


330     KNOWLEDGE  IN  RELATION  TO  PROFESSIONAL  SKILL 

KNOWLEDGE  VIEWED    IN    RELATION 
TO    PROFESSIONAL   SKILL 

JOHN   HENRY  NEWMAN 

[Discourse  vii  in  The  Idea  of  a  University  defined  and  illustrated,  1854.] 

I 

I  HAVE  been  insisting,  in  my  two  preceding  Discourses,  first,  on 
the  cultivation  of  tlie  intellect,  as  an  end  which  may  reasonably  be 
pursued  for  its  own  sake  ;  and  next,  on  the  nature  of  that  cultiva- 
tion, or  what  that  cultivation  consists  in.  Truth  of  whatever  kind 
is  the  proper  object  of  the  intellect ;  its  cultivation  then  hes  in 
fitting  it  to  apprehend  and  contemplate  truth.  Now  the  intellect  in 
its  present  state,  with  exceptions  which  need  not  here  be  specified, 
does  not  discern  truth  intuitively,  or  as  a  whole.  We  know,  not 
by  a  direct  and  simple  vision,  not  at  a  glance,  but,  as  it  were,  by 
piecemeal  and  accumulation,  by  a  mental  process,  by  going  round 
an  object,  by  the  comparison,  the  combination,  the  mutual  correc- 
tion, the  continuql  adaptation,  of  many  partial  notions,  by  the 
employment,  concentration,  and  joint  action  of  many  faculties  and 
exercises  of  mind.  Such  a  union  and  concert  of  the  intellectual 
powers,  such  an  enlargement  and  development,  such  a  compre- 
hensiveness, is  necessarily  a  matter  of  training.  And  again,  such  a 
training  is  a  matter  of  rule ;  it  is  not  mere  application,  however 
exemplary,  which  introduces  the  mind  to  truth,  nor  the  reading 
many  books,  nor  the  getting  up  many  subjects,  nor  the  witnessing 
many  experiments,  nor  the  attending  many  lectures.  All  this  is 
short  of  enough  ;  a  man  may  have  done  it  all,  yet  be  lingering  in 
the  vestibule  of  knowledge  :  —  he  may  not  realize  what  his  mouth 
utters  ;  he  may  not  see  with  his  mental  eye  what  confronts  him ; 
he  may  have  no  grasp  of  things  as  they  are  ;  or  at  least  he  may 
have  no  power  at  all  of  advancing  one  step  forward  of  himself,  in 
consequence  of  what  he  has  already  acquired,  no  power  of  dis- 
criminating between  truth  and  falsehood,  of  sifting  out  the  grains 
of  truth  from  the  mass,  of  arranging  things  according  to  their  real 
value,  and,  if  I  may  use  the  phrase,  of  building  up  ideas.     Such  a 


JOHN  HENR  V  NE  iVMAlV  3  3  I 

power  is  the  result  of  a  scientific  formation  of  mind ;  it  is  an 
acquired  faculty  of  judgment,  of  clear-sightedness,  of  sagacity, 
of  wisdom,  of  philosophical  reach  of  mind,  and  of  intellectual  self- 
possession  and  repose,  —  qualities  which  do  not  come  of  mere 
acquirement.  The  bodily  eye,  the  organ  for  apprehending  mate- 
rial objects,  is  provided  by  nature;  the  eye  of  the  mind,  of  which 
the  object  is  truth,  is  the  work  of  discipline  and  habit. 

/This  process  of  training,  by  which  the  intellect,  instead  of  being 
formed  or  sacrificed  to  some  particular  or  accidental  purpose, 
some  specific  trade  or  profession,  or  study  or  science,  is  disci- 
plined for  its  own  sake,  for  the  perception  of  its  own  proper 
object,  and  for  its  own  highest  culture,  is  called  Liberal  Educa- 
tion ;  and  though  there  is  no  one  in  whom  it  is  carried  as  far  as  is 
conceivable,  or  whose  intellect  would  be  a  pattern  of  what  intel- 
lects should  be  made,  yet  there  is  scarcely  any  one  but  may  gain 
an  idea  of  what  real  training  is,  and  at  least  look  towards  it,  and 
make  its  true  scope  and  result,  not  something  else,  his  standard 
of  excellence ;  and  numbers  there  are  who  may  submit  themselves 
to  it,  and  secure  it  to  themselves  in  good  measure.  And  to  set 
forth  the  right  standard,  and  to  train  according  to  it,  and  to  help 
forward  all  students  towards  it  according  to  their  various  capaci- 
ties, this  I  conceive  to  be  the  business  of  a  University. 


Now  this  is  what  some  great  men  are  very  slow  to  allow ;  they 
insist  that  Education  should  be  confined  to  some  particular  and 
narrow  end,  and  should  issue  in  some  definite  work,  which  can  be 
weighed  and  measured.  i^They  argue  as  if  every  thing,  as  well  as 
every  person,  had  its  price  ;  and  that  where  there  has  been  a  great 
outlay,  they  have  a  right  to  expect  a  return  in  kind.  This  they 
call  making  Education  and  Instruction  "  useful,"  and  "  Utility  " 
becomes  their  watchword.  With  a  fundamental  principle  of  this 
nature,  they  very  naturally  go  on  to  ask,  what  there  is  to  show  for 
the  expense  of  a  University ;  what  is  the  real  worth  in  the  market 
of  the  article  called  "  a  Liberal  Education,"  on  the  supposition 
that  it  does  not  teach  us  definitely  how  to  advance  our  manu- 
factures, or  to  improve  our  lands,  or  to  better  our  civil  economy ; 
or  again,  if  it  does  not  at  once  make  this  man  a  lawyer,  that  an 


332     KNOWLEDGE  IN  RELATION  TO  PROFESSIONAL  SKILL 

engineer,  and  that  a  surgeon ;  or  at  least  if  it  does  not  lead  to 
discoveries  in  chemistry,  astronomy,  geology,  magnetism,  and 
science  of  every  kind. 

This  question,  as  might  have  been  expected,  has  been  keenly 
debated  in  the  present  age,  and  formed  one  main  subject  of  the 
controversy,  to  which  I  referred  in  the  Introduction  to  the  present 
Discourses,  as  having  been  sustained  in  the  first  decade  of  this 
century  by  a  celebrated  Northern  Review  on  the  one  hand,  and 
defenders  of  the  University  of  Oxford  on  the  other.  Hardly  had 
the  authorities  of  that  ancient  seat  of  learning,  waking  from  their 
long  neglect,  set  on  foot  a  plan  for  the  education  of  the  youth 
committed  to  them,  than  the  representatives  of  science  and  htera- 
ture  in  the  city,  which  has  sometimes  been  called  the  Northern 
Athens,  remonstrated,  with  their  gravest  arguments  and  their  most 
brilliant  satire,  against  the  direction  and  shape  which  the  reform 
was  taking.  Nothing  would  content  them,  but  that  the  University 
should  be  set  to  rights  on  the  basis  of  the  philosophy  of  Utility  ;  a 
philosophy,  as  they  seem  to  have  thought,  which  needed  but  to  be 
proclaimed  in  order  to  be  embraced.  In  truth,  they  were  little 
aware  of  the  depth  and  force  of  the  principles  on  which  the 
academical  authorities  were  proceeding,  and,  this  being  so,  it 
was  not  to  be  expected  that  they  would  be  allowed  to  walk 
at  leisure  over  the  field  of  controversy  which  they  ha,d  selected. 
Accordingly  they  were  encountered  in  behalf  of  the  University  by 
two  men  of  great  name  and  influence  in  their  day,  of  very  different 
minds,  but  united,  as  by  Collegiate  ties,  so  in  the  clear-sighted 
and  large  view  which  they  took  of  the  whole  subject  of  Liberal 
Education ;  and  the  defence  thus  provided  for  the  Oxford  studies 
has  kept  its  ground  to  this  day. 

3 

Let  me  be  allowed  to  devote  a  few  words  to  the  memory  of  dis- 
tinguished persons,  under  the  shadow  of  whose  name  I  once  lived, 
and  by  whose  doctrine  I  am  now  profiting.  In  the  heart  of  Oxford 
there  is  a  small  plot  of  ground,  hemmed  in  by  public  thorough- 
fares, which  has  been  the  possession  and  the  home  of  one  Society 
for  about  five  hundred  years.  In  the  old  time  of  Boniface  the 
Eighth  and  John  the  Twenty-second,  in  the  age  of  Scotus  and 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN  333 

Occam   and   Dante,  before  Wiclif  or   Huss   had    kindled   those 
miserable  fires  which  are  still  raging  to  the  ruin  of  the  highest 
interests  of  man,  an  unfortunate  king  of  England,  Edward  the 
Second,  flying  from  the  field  of  Bannockburn,  is    said   to  have 
made  a  vow  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  to  found  a  religious  house  in 
her  honour,  if  he  got  back  in  safety.     Prompted  and  aided  by  his 
Almoner,  he  decided  on  placing  this  house  in  the  city  of  Alfred  ; 
and  the  Image  of  our  Lady,  which  is  opposite  its  entrance-gate, 
is  to  this  day  the  token  of  the  vow  and  its  fulfilment.     King  and 
Almoner  have  long  been  in  the  dust,  and  strangers  have  entered 
into  their  inheritance,  and  their  creed  has  been  forgotten,  and 
their  holy  rites  disowned  ;  but  day  by  day  a  memento  is  still  made 
in  the  holy  Sacrifice  by  at  least  one  Catholic  Priest,  once  a  member 
of  that  College,  for  the  souls  of  those  Catholic  benefactors  who 
fed  him  there  for  so  many  years.     The  visitor,  whose  curiosity 
has  been  excited  by  its  present  fame,  gazes  perhaps  with  some- 
thing of  disappointment  on  a  collection  of  buildings  which  have 
with   them    so   few  of  the   circumstances   of  dignity  or  wealth. 
Broad  quadrangles,  high  halls  and  chambers,  ornamented  cloisters, 
stately  walks,  or  umbrageous  gardens,  a  throng  of  students,  ample 
revenues,  or  a   glorious  history,  none  of  these    things  were  the 
portion  of  that  old  Catholic  foundation  ;  nothing  in  short  which 
to  the  common  eye  sixty  years  ago  would  have  given  tokens  of 
what  it  was  to  be.     But  it  had  at  that  time  a  spirit  working  within 
it,  which  enabled  its  inmates  to  do,  amid  its  seeming  insignifi- 
cance, what  no  other  body  in  the  place  could  equal ;  not  a  very 
abstruse  gift  or  extraordinary  boast,  but  a  rare  one,  the  honest 
purpose  to  administer  the  trust  committed  to  them  in  such  a  way 
as  their  conscience  pointed  out  as  best.    So,  whereas  the  Colleges 
of  Oxford  are  self-electing  bodies,  the  fellows  in  each  perpetually 
filling   up    for   themselves    the   vacancies   which   occur   in    their 
number,  the  members  of  this  foundation  determined,  at  a  time 
when,  either  from  evil  custom  or  from  ancient   statute,  such   a 
thing  was  not  known  elsewhere,  to  throw  open  their  fellowships 
to  the  competition  of  all  comers,  and,  in  the  choice  of  associates 
henceforth,  to  cast  to  the  winds  every  personal  motive  and  feel- 
ing, family  connexion,  and  friendship,  and  patronage,  and  political 
interest,  and  local  claim,  and  prejudice,  and  party  jealousy,  and 


334     ^^0  WLED  GE  IN  RELA  TION  TO  PR  O  FES  SIGNAL  SKILL 

to  elect  solely  on  public  and  patriotic  grounds.  Nay,  with  a 
remarkable  independence  of  mind,  they  resolved  that  even  the 
table  of  honours,  awarded  to  literary  merit  by  the  University  in  its 
new  system  of  examination  for  degrees,  should  not  fetter  their 
judgment  as  electors ;  but  that  at  all  risks,  and  whatever  criticism 
it  might  cause,  and  whatever  odium  they  might  incur,  they  would 
select  the  men,  whoever  they  were,  to  be  children  of  their  Founder, 
whom  they  thought  in  their  consciences  to  be  most  likely  from 
their  intellectual  and  moral  qualities  to  please  him,  if  (as  they 
expressed  it)  he  were  still  upon  earth,  most  likely  to  do  honour 
to  his  College,  most  likely  to  promote  the  objects  which  they 
believed  he  had  at  heart.  Such  persons  did  not  promise  to  be 
the  disciples  of  a  low  Utilitarianism  ;  and  consequently,  as  their 
collegiate  reform  synchronized  with  that  reform  of  the  Academical 
body,  in  which  they  bore  a  principal  part,  it  was  not  unnatural 
that,  when  the  storm  broke  upon  the  University  from  the  North, 
their  Alma  Mater,  whom  they  loved,  should  have  found  her  first 
defenders  within  the  walls  of  that  small  College,  which  had  first 
put  itself  into  a  condition  to  be  her  champion. 

These  defenders,  I  have  said,  were  two,  of  whom  the  more  dis- 
tinguished was  the  late  Dr.  Copleston,  then  a  Fellow  of  the  Col- 
lege, successively  its  Provost,  and  Protestant  Bishop  of  Llandaff. 
In  that  Society,  which  owes  so  much  to  him,  his  name  lives,  and 
ever  will  live,  for  the  distinction  which  his  talents  bestowed  on  it, 
for  the  academical  importance  to  which  he  raised  it,  for  the  gen- 
erosity of  spirit,  the  Uberality  of  sentiment,  and  the  kindness  of 
heart,  with  which  he  adorned  it,  and  which  even  those  who  had 
least  sympathy  with  some  aspects  of  his  mind  and  character  could 
not  but  admire  and  love.  Men  come  to  their  meridian  at  various 
periods  of  their  lives ;  the  last  years  of  the  eminent  person  I  am 
speaking  of  were  given  to  duties  which,  I  am  told,  have  been  the 
means  of  endearing  him  to  numbers,  but  which  afforded  no  scope 
for  that  peculiar  vigour  and  keenness  of  mind  which  enabled  him, 
when  a  young  man,  single-handed,  with  easy  gallantry,  to  en- 
counter and  overthrow  the  charge  of  three  giants  of  the  North 
combined  against  him.  I  believe  I  am  right  in  saying  that,  in  the 
progress  of  the  controversy,  the  most  scientific,  the  most  critical, 
and  the  most  witty,  of  that  literary  company,  all  of  them  now,  as 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN  335 

he  himself,  removed  from  this  visible  scene,  Professor  Playfair, 
Lord  Jeffrey,  and  the  Rev.  Sydney  Smith,  threw  together  their 
several  efforts  into  one  article  of  their  Review,  in  order  to  crush 
and  pound  to  dust  the  audacious  coutrovertist  who  had  come  out 
against  them  in  defence  of  his  own  Institutions.  To  have  even 
contended  with  such  men  was  a  sufficient  voucher  for  his  ability, 
even  before  we  open  his  pamphlets,  and  have  actual  evidence  of 
the  good  sense,  the  spirit,  the  scholar-like  taste,  and  the  purity 
of  style,  by  which  they  are  distinguished. 

He  was  supported  in  the  controversy,  on  the  same  general 
principles,  but  with  more  of  method  and  distinctness,  and,  I  will 
add,  with  greater  force  and  beauty  and  perfection,  both  of  thought 
and  of  language,  by  the  other  distinguished  writer,  to  whom  I 
have  already  referred,  Mr.  Davison ;  who,  though  not  so  well 
known  to  the  world  in  his  day,  has  left  more  behind  him  than  the 
Provost  of  Oriel,  to  make  his  name  remembered  by  posterity. 
This  thoughtful  man,  who  was  the  admired  and  intimate  friend 
of  a  very  remarkable  person,  whom,  whether  he  wish  it  or  not, 
numbers  revere  and  love  as  the  first  author  of  the  subsequent 
movement  in  the  Protestant  Church  towards  Catholicism,^  this 
grave  and  philosophical  writer,  whose  works  I  can  never  look  into 
without  sighing  that  such  a  man  was  lost  to  the  Catholic  Church, 
as  Dr.  Butler  before  him,  by  some  early  bias  or  some  fault  of  self- 
education  —  he,  in  a  review  of  a  work  by  Mr.  Edgeworth  on  Pro- 
fessional Education,  which  attracted  a  good  deal  of  attention  in 
its  day,  goes  leisurely  over  the  same  ground,  which  had  already 
been  rapidly  traversed  by  Dr.  Copleston,  and,  though  professedly 
employed  upon  Mr.  Edgeworth,  is  really  replying  to  the  northern 
critic  who  had  brought  that  writer's  work  into  notice,  and  to  a  far 
greater  author  than  either  of  them,  who  in  a  past  age  had  argued 
on  the  same  side. 

4 

The  author  to  whom  I  allude  is  no  other  than  Locke.  That 
celebrated  philosopher  has  preceded  the  Edinburgh  Reviewers 
in  condemning  the  ordinary  subjects  in  which  boys  are  instructed 

1  Mr.  Keble,  Vicar  of  Hursley,  late  Fellow  of  Oriel,  and  Professor  of  Poetry  in 
the  University  of  Oxford. 


336    KNOWLEDGE  IN  RELATION  TO  PROFESSIONAL  SKILL 

in  school,  on  the  ground  that  they  are  not  needed  by  them  in 

after  life ;  and  before  quoting  what  his  disciples  have  said  in  the 

) present  century,   I  will  refer  to  a  few  passages  of  the  master. 

^  "  'Tis  matter  of  astonishment,"  he  says  in  his  work  on  Education, 
"that  men  of  quality  and  parts  should  suffer  themselves  to  be  so 
far  misled  by  custom  and  implicit  faith.  Reason,  if  consulted 
wdth,  would  advise,  that  their  children's  time  should  be  spent  in 
acquiring  what  might  be  useful  to  them,  when  they  come  to  be 
men,  rather  than  that  their  heads  should  be  stuffed  with  a  deal 
of  trash,  a  great  part  whereof  they  usually  never  do  ('tis  certain 
they  never  need  to)  think  on  again  as  long  as  they  live ;  and  so 
much  of  it  as  does  stick  by  them  they  are  only  the  worse  for.'*) 

And  so  again,  speaking  of  verse-making,  he  says,  "  I  know  not 
what  reason  a  father  can  have  to  wish  his  son  a  poet,  who  does 
not  desire  him  to  bid  defiance  to  all  other  callings  and  busi- 
ness ;  which  is  not  yet  the  worst  of  the  case ;  for,  if  he  proves  a 
successful  rhymer,  and  gets  once  the  reputation  of  a  wit,  I  desire 
it  to  be  considered,  what  company  and  places  he  is  likely  to 
spend  his  time  in,  nay,  and  estate  too ;  for  it  is  very  seldom  seen 
that  any  one  discovers  mines  of  gold  or  silver  in  Parnassus.  'Tis 
a  pleasant  air,  but  a  barren  soil." 

In  another  passage  he  distinctly  limits  utility  in  education  to 
its  bearing  on  the  future  profession  or  trade  of  the  pupil,  that  is, 
he  scorns  the  idea  of  any  education  of  the  intellect,  simply  as 
such.  ^"  Can  there  be  any  thing  more  ridiculous,"  he  asks,  "  than 
that  a  father  should  waste  his  own  money,  and  his  son's  time,  in 
setting  him  to  learn  the  Roman  language,  when  at  the  same  time 
he  designs  him  for  a  tj-ade,  wherein  he,  having  no  use  of  Latin, 
fails  not  to  forget  that  httle  which  he  brought  from  school,  and 
which  'tis  ten  to  one  he  abhors  for  the  ill-usage  it  procured  him? 
Could  it  be  believed,  unless  we  have  every  where  amongst  us 
examples  of  it,  that  a  child  should  be  forced  to  learn  the  rudi- 
ments of  a  language,  which  he  is  never  to  use  in  the  course  of  life 
that  he  is  designed  to,  and  neglect  all  the  while  the  writing  a  good 
hand,  and  casting  accounts,  which  are  of  great  advantage  in  all 
conditions  pf  life,  and  to  most  trades  indispensably  necessary?"^ 

^  Nothing  of  course  can  be  more  absurd  than  to  neglect  in  ediica- 
tion  those  matters  which  are  necessary  for  a  boy's  future  calling; 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN  337 

hut  the  tone  of  Locke's  remarks  evidently  impHes  more  than  this, 
and  is  condemnatory  of  any  teaching  which  tends  to  the  general 
cultivation  of  the  mind./^ 

Now  to  turn  to  his  modern  disciples.  The  study  of  the 
Classics  had  been  made  the  basis  of  the  Oxford  education,  in  the 
reforms  which  I  have  spoken  of,  and  the  Edinburgh  Reviewers 
protested,  after  the  manner  of  Locke,  that  no  good  could  come 
of  a  system  which  was  not  based  upon  the  principle  of  Utility. 

"  Classical  Literature,"  they  said,  "  is  the  great  object  at  Oxford. 
Many  minds,  so  employed,  have  produced  many  works  and  much 
fame  in  that  department ;  but  if  all  liberal  arts  and  sciences,  use- 
ful to  hmnan  life,  had  been  taught  there,  if  some  had  dedicated 
themselves  to  c  he  in  is  fry,  some  to  mathematics,  some  to  experimen- 
ta/ philosophy,  Wi\(\  \{  every  ?i\.t?i\nm&ni  had  been  honoured  in  the 
mixt  ratio  of  its  difficulty  and  utility,  the  system  of  such  a  Univer- 
sity would  have  been  much  more  valuable,  but  the  splendour  of 
its  name  something  less." 

Utility  may  be  made  the  end  of  education,  in  two  respects  : 
either  as  regards  the  individual  educated,  or  the  community  at 
large.  In  which  light  do  these  writers  regard  it?  in  the  latter. } 
So  far  they  differ  from  Locke,  for  they  consider  the  advancement 
of  science  as  the  supreme  and  real  end  of  a  University.  This  is 
brought  into  view  in  the  sentences  which  follow. 

"  When  a  University  has  been  doing  useless  things  for  a  long 
time,  it  appears  at  first  degrading  to  them  to  be  useful.  A  set  of 
Lectures  on  PoUtical  Economy  would  be  discouraged  in  Oxford, 
probably  despised,  probably  not  permitted.  To  discuss  the  in- 
closure  of  commons,  and  to  dwell  upon  imports  and  exports,  to 
come  so  near  to  common  life,  would  seem  to  be  undignified  and 
contemptible.  \\\  the  same  manner,  the  Parr  or  the  Bentley  of 
the  day  would  be  scandalized,  in  a  University,  to  be  put  on  a 
level  with  the  discoverer  of  a  neutral  salt ;  and  yet,  tvhat  other 
measure  is  there  of  dignity  in  intellectual  labour  but  usefulness  ? 
And  what  ought  the  term  University  to  mean,  but  a  place  where 
every  science  is  taught  which  is  liberal,  and  at  the  same  time  use- 
ful to  mankind?  Nothing  would  so  much  tend  to  bring  classical 
literature  within  proper  bounds  as  a  steady  and  invariable  appeal 
to  utility  in  our  appreciation  of  all  human  knowledge.  .  .  .    Look- 


338    KNOWLEDGE  IN  RELATION  TO  PROFESSIONAL  SKILL 

ing  always  to  real  utility  as  our  guide,  we  should  see,  with  equal 
pleasure,  a  studious  and  inquisitive  mind  arranging  the  productions 
of  nature,  investigating  the  qualities  of  bodies,  or  mastering  the 
difficulties  of  the  learned  languages.  We  should  not  care  whether 
he  was  chemist,  naturalist,  or  scholar,  because  we  know  it  to  be  as 
necessary  that  matter  should  be  studied  and  subdued  to  the  use  of 
man,  as  that  taste  should  be  gratified,  and  imagination  inflamed." 

Such  then  is  the  enunciation,  as  far  as  words  go,  of  the  theory 
of  Utility  in  Education ;  and  both  on  its  own  account,  and  for  the 
sake  of  the  able  men  who  have  advocated  it,  it  has  a  claim  on  the  at- 
tention of  those  whose  principles  I  am  here  representing.  Certainly 
it  is  specj.ous  to  contend  that  "riothing  is  worth  pursuing  but  what 
is  useful)  and  that  life  is  not  long  enough  to  expend  upon  inter- 
esting, or  curious,  or  brilliant  trifles.  Nay,  in  one  sense,  I  will 
grant  it  is  more  than  specious,  it  is  true  ;  but,  if  so,  how  do  I  propose 
directly  to  meet  the  objection?  Why,  Gentlemen,  I  have  really 
met  it  already,  viz.,  in  laying  down,  that  intellectual  culture  is 
its  own  end ;  for  what  has  its  etid  in  itself,  has  its  use  in  it- 
self also.  I  say,  if  a  Liberal  Education  consists  in  the  culture  of 
the  intellect,  and  if  that  culture  be  in  itself  a  good,  here,  without 
going  further,  is  an  answer  to  Locke's  question ;  for  if  a  healthy 
body  is  a  good  in  itself,  why  is  not  a  healthy  intellect?  and  if  a 
CoUege  of  Physicians  is  a  useful  institution,  because  it  contem- 
plates bodily  health,  why  is  not  an  Academical  Body,  though  it 
were  simply  and  solely  engaged  in  imparting  vigour  and  beauty 
and  grasp  to  the  intellectual  portion  of  our  nature?  And  the 
Reviewers  I  am  quoting  seem  to  allow  this  in  their  better  moments, 
in  a  passage  which,  putting  aside  the  question  of  its  justice  in  fact, 
is  sound  and  true  in  the  principles  to  which  it  appeals  :  — 

"  The  present  state  of  classical  education,"  they  say,  "  cultivates 
the  imagination  a  great  deal  too  much,  and  other  habits  of  mind 
a  great  deal  too  little,  and  trains  up  many  young  men  in  a  style 
of  elegant  imbecility,  utterly  unworthy  of  the  talents  with  which 
nature  has  endowed  them.  .  .  .  The  matter  of  fact  is,  that  a 
classical  scholar  of  twenty-three  or  twenty-four  is  a  man  princi- 
pally conversant  with  works  of  imagination.  His  feelings  are 
quick,  his  fancy  lively,  and  his  taste  good.  Talents  for  specula- 
tion  and  original  inquity  he  has  none,  nor  has  he  formed  the 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN  339 

invaluable  habit  of  pushing  things  up  to  their  first  principles,  or  of 
collecting  dry  and  unamusing  facts  as  the  materials  for  reasoning. 
All  the  solid  and  masculine  parts  of  his  understanding  are  left 
wholly  without  cultivation ;  he  hates  the  pain  of  thinking,  and 
suspects  every  man  whose  boldness  and  originality  call  upon  him 
to  defend  his  opinions  and  prove  his  assertions." 

5 

Now,  I  am  not  at  present  concerned  with  the  specific  question 
of  classical  education  ;  else,  I  might  reasonably  question  the  justice 
of  calling  an  intellectual  discipline,  which  embraces  the  study  of 
Aristotle,  Thucydides,  and  Tacitus,  which  involves  Scholarship  and 
Antiquities,  imaginative  ;  still  so  far  I  readily  grant,  that  the  culti- 
vation of  the  "  understanding,"  of  a  "  talent  for  speculation  and 
original  inquiry,"  and  of  "the  habit  of  pushing  things  up  to  their 
first  principles,"  is  a  principal  portion  of  a  good  or  libei-al  educa- 
tion. If  then  the  Reviewers  consider  such  cultivation  the  char- 
acteristic of  a  useful  education,  as  they  seem  to  do  in  the  foregoing 
passage,  it  follows,  that  what  they  mean  by  "  useful "  is  just  what 
I  mean  by  "  good  "  or  "  liberal  "  :  and  Locke's  question  becomes 
a  verbal  one.  Whether  youths  are  to  be  taught  Latin  or  verse- 
making  will  depend  on  the  fact,  whether  these  studies  tend  to 
mental  culture ;  but,  however  this  is  determined,  so  far  is  clear, 
that  in  that  mental  culture  consists  what  I  have  called  a  liberal  or 
non-professional,  and  what  the  Reviewers  call  a  useful  education. 

This  is  the  obvious  answer  which  may  be  made  to  those  who 
urge  upon  us  the  claims  of  Utility  in  our  plans  of  Education  ;  but 
I  am  not  going  to  leave  the  subject  here  :  I  mean  to  take  a  wider 
view  of  it.  Let  us  take  "useful,"  as  Locke  takes  it,  in  its  proper 
and  popular  sense,  and  then  we  enter  upon  a  large  field  of  thought, 
to  which  I  cannot  do  justice  in  one  Discourse,  though  to-day's  is 
all  the  space  that  I  can  give  to  it.  I  say,  let  us  take  "  useful  "  to 
mean,  not  what  is  simply  good,  but  what  tends  to  good,  or  is  the 
instrument  of  good  ;  and  in  this  sense  also,  Gentlemen,  I  will 
show  you  how  a  liberal  education  is  truly  and  fully  a  useful, 
though  it  be  not  a  professional,  education.  "  Good "  indeed 
means  one  thing,  and  "  useful  "  means  another ;  but  I  lay  it  down 
as  a  principle,  which  will  save  us  a  great  deal  of  anxiety,  that, 


340    KNOWLEDGE  IN  RELATION  TO  PROFESSIONAL  SKILL 

though  the  useful  is  not  always  good,  the  good  is  always  useful. 
Good  is  not  only  good,  but  reproductive  of  good ;  this  is  one  of 
its  attributes  \  nothing  is  excellent,  beautiful,  perfect,  desirable  for 
its  own  sake,  but  it  overflows,  and  spreads  the  likeness  of  itself 
all  around  it.  Good  is  prolific ;  it  is  not  only  good  to  the  eye, 
but  to  the  taste ;  it  not  only  attracts  us,  but  it  communicates 
itself;  it  excites  first  our  admiration  and  love,  then  'our  desire 
and  our  gratitude,  and  that,  in  proportion  to  its  intenseness  and 
fulness  in  particular  instances.  A  great  good  will  impart  great 
good.  If  then  the  intellect  is  so  excellent  a  portion  of  us,  and 
its  ciiltivation  so  excellent,  it  is  not  only  beautiful,  perfect,  ad- 
mirable, and  noble  in  itself,  but  in  a  true  and  high  sense  it  must 
be  useful  to  the  possessor  and  to  all  around  him  ;  \^iot  useful  in 
any  low,  mechanical,  mercantile  sense,  but  as  diffusing  good,  or 
as  a  blessing,  or  a  gift,  or  power,  or  a  treasure,  first  to  the  owner, 
then  through  him  to  the  world.  I  say  then,  if  a  liberal  education 
be  good,  it  must  necessarily  be  useful  too. 


You  will  see  what  I  mean  by  the  parallel  of  bodily  health. 
Health  is  a  good  in  itself,  though  nothing  came  of  it,  and  is  es- 
pecially worth  seeking  and  cherishing  ;  yet,  after  all,  the  blessings 
which  attend  its  presence  are  so  great,  while  they  are  so  close  to 
it  and  so  redound  back  upon  it  and  encircle  it,  that  we  never 
think  of  it  except  as  useful  as  well  as  good,  and  praise  and  prize 
it  for  what  it  does,  as  well  as  for  what  it  is,  though  at  the  same 
time  we  cannot  point  out  any  definite  and  distinct  work  or  pro- 
duction which  it  can  be  said  to  effect.  And  so  as  regards  intel- 
lectual culture,  I  am  far  from  denying  utility  in  this  large  sense  as 
the  end  of  Education,  when  I  lay  it  down,  that  the  culture  of  the 
intellect  is  a  good  in  itself  and  its  own  end ;  I  do  not  exclude 
from  the  idea  of  intellectual  culture  what  it  cannot  but  be,  from 
the  very  nature  of  things ;  I  only  deny  that  we  must  be  able  to 
point  out,  before  we  have  any  right  to  call  it  useful,  some  art,  or 
business,  or  profession,  or  trade,  or  work,  as  resulting  from  it,  and 
as  its  real  and  complete  end.  The  parallel  is  exact :  — ^  As  the 
body  may  be  sacrificed  to  some  manual  or  other  toil,  whether 
moderate  or  oppressive,  so  may  the  intellect  be  devoted  to  some 


JOHN  HENR  Y  NE  WMAN  3  4 1 

specific  profession  ;  and  I  do  not  call  tliis  the  culture  of  the 
intellect.  Again,  as  some  member  or  organ  of  the  body  may  be 
inordinately  used  and  developed,  so  may  memory,  or  imagination, 
or  the  reasoning  faculty ;  and  this  again  is  not  intellectual  culture. 
On  the  other  hand,  as  the  body  may  be  tended,  cherished,  and 
exercised  with  a  simple  view  to  its  general  health,  so  may  the 
intellect  also  be  generally  exercised  in  order  to  its  perfect  state  ; 
and  this  is  its  cultivation. 

Again,  as  health  ought  to  precede  labour  of  the  body,  and  as  a 
man  in  health  can  do  what  an  unhealthy  man  cannot  do,  and  as 
of  this  health  the  properties  are  strength,  energy,  agility,  graceful 
carriage  and  action,  manual  dexterity,  and  endurance  of  fatigue, 
so  in  like  manner  general  culture  of  mind  is  the  best  aid  to  pro- 
fessional and  scientific  study,  and  educated  men  can  do  what 
illiterate  cannot  j  and  the  man  who  has  learned  to  think  and  to 
reason  and  to  compare  and  to  discriminate  and  to  analyze,  who 
has  refined  his  taste,  and  formed  his  judgment,  and  sharpened  his 
mental  vision,  will  not  indeed  at  once  be  a  lawyer,  or  a  pleader, 
or  an  orator,  or  a  statesman,  or  a  physician,  or  a  good  landlord, 
or  a  man  of  business,  or  a  soldier,  or  an  engineer,  or  a  chemist,  or 
a  geologist,  or  an  antiquarian,  but  he  will  be  placed  in  that  state 
of  intellect  in  which  he  can  take  up  any  one  of  the  sciences  or 
callings  I  have  referred  to,  or  any  other  for  which  he  has  a  taste 
or  special  talent,  with  an  ease,  a  grace,  a  versatility,  and  a  success, 
to  which  another  is  a  stranger.  In  this  sense  then,  and  as  yet  I 
have  said  but  a  very  few  words  on  a  large  subject,  mental  culture 
is  emphatically  useful. 

If  then  I  am  arguing,  and  shall  argue,  against  Professional  or 
Scientific  knowledge  as  the  sufficient  end  of  a  University  Edu- 
cation, let  me  not  be  supposed.  Gentlemen,  to  be  disrespectful 
towards  particular  studies,  or  arts,  or  vocations,  and  those  who 
are  engaged  in  them.  In  saying  that  Law  or  Medicine  is  not  the 
end  of  a  University  course,  I  do  not  mean  to  imply  that  the  Uni- 
versity does  not  teach  Law  or  Medicine.  What  indeed  can  it 
teach  at  all,  if  it  does  not  teach  something  particular?  It  teaches 
all  knowledge  by  teaching  all  branches  of  knowledge,  and  in  no 
other  way.  I  do  but  say  that  there  will  be  this  distinction  as 
regards  a  Professor  of  Law,  or  of  Medicine,  or  of  Geology,  or  of 


342     KNOWLEDGE  IN  RELATION  TO  PROFESSIONAL  SKILL 

Political  Economy,  in  a  University  and  out  of  it,  that  out  of  a 
University  he  is  in  danger  of  being  absorbed  and  narrowed  by  his 
pursuit,  and  of  giving  Lectures  which  are  the  Lectures  of  nothing 
more  than  a  lawyer,  physician,  geologist,  or  political  economist ; 
whereas  in  a  University  he  will  just  know  where  he  and  his  science 
stand,  he  has  come  to  it,  as  it  were,  from  a  height,  he  has  taken 
a  survey  of  all  knowledge,  he  is  kept  from  extravagance  by  the 
very  rivalry  of  other  studies,  he  has  gained  from  them  a  special 
illumination  and  largeness  of  mind  and  freedom  and  self-possession, 
and  he  treats  his  own  in  consequence  with  a  philosophy  and  a 
resource,  which  belongs  not  to  the  study  itself,  but  to  his  liberal 
education. 

This  then  is  how  I  should  solve  the  fallacy,  for  so  I  must  call  it, 
by  which  Locke  and  his  disciples  would  frighten  us  from  culti- 
vating the  intellect,  under  the  notion  that  no  education  is  useful 
which  does  not  teach  us  some  tem]:)oral  calling,  or  some  mechani- 
cal art,  or  some  physical  secret.  *I  say  that  a  cultivated  intellect, 
because  it  is  a  good  in  itself,  brings  with  it  a  power  and  a  grace  to 
every  work  and  occupation  which  it  undertakes,  and  enables  us  to 
be  more  useful,  and  to  a  greater  number.  There  is  a  duty  we 
owe  to  human  society  as  such,  to  the  state  to  which  we  belong,  to 
the  sphere  in  which  we  move,  to  the  individuals  towards  whom  we 
are  variously  related,  and  whom  we  successively  encounter  in  life  ; 
and  that  philosophical  or  liberal  education,  as  I  have  called  it, 
which  is  the  proper  function  of  a  University,  if  it  refuses  the  fore- 
most place  to  professional  interests,  does  but  postpone  them  to 
the  formation  of  the  citizen,  and,  while  it  subserves  the  larger 
interests  of  philanthropy,  prepares  also  for  the  successful  prosecu- 
tion of  those  merely  personal  objects,  which  at  first  sight  it  seems 
to  disparage. \ 

7 

And  now.  Gentlemen,  I  wish  to  be  allowed  to  enforce  in  detail 
what  I  have  been  saying,  by  some  extracts  from  the  writings 
to  which  I  have  already  alluded,  and  to  which  I  am  so  greatly 
indebted. 

"  It  is  an  undisputed  maxim  in  Political  Economy,"  says  Dr. 
Copleston,  "  that  the  separation  of  professions  and  the  division  of 
labour  tend  to  the  perfection  of  every  art,  to  the  wealth  of  nations, 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN  343 

to  the  general  comfort  and  well-being  of  the  community.  This 
principle  of  division  is  in  some  instances  pursued  so  far  as  to 
excite  the  wonder  of  people  to  whose  notice  it  is  for  the  first  time 
pointed  out  There  is  no  saying  to  what  extent  it  may  not  be 
carried ;  ana  the  more  the  powers  of  each  individual  are  concen- 
trated in  one  employment,  the  greater  skill  and  quickness  will  he 
naturally  display  in  performing  it.  But,  while  he  thus  contributes 
more  effectually  to  the  accumulation  of  national  wealth,  he 
becomes  himself  more  and  more  degraded  as  a  rational  being. 
In  proportion  as  his  sphere  of  action  is  narrowed  his  mental  powers 
and  habits  become  contracted  ;  and  he  resembles  a  subordinate 
part  of  some  powerful  machinery,  useful  in  its  place,  but  insignifi- 
cant and  worthless  out  of  it.  If  it  be  necessary,  as  it  is  beyond 
all  question  necessary,  that  society  should  be  split  into  divisions 
and  subdivisions,  in  order  that  its  several  duties  may  be  well  per- 
formed, yet  we  must  be  careful  not  to  yield  up  ourselves  wholly  and 
exclusively  to  the  guidance  of  this  system ;  we  must  observe  what 
its  evils  are,  and  we  should  modify  and  restrain  it,  by  bringing  into 
action  other  principles,  which  may  serve  as  a  check  and  counter- 
poise to  the  main  force. 

M  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  every  art  is  improved  by  confin- 
ing'the  professor  of  it  to  that  single  study..  But,  although  the  art 
itself  is  advanced  by  this  concentratio7i  'of  mind  in  its  service,  the 
individual  who  is  confined  to  it  goes  back.  The  advantage  of  the 
cpmmunity  is  nearly  in  an  inverse  ratio  with  his  own. 
^^  "  Society  itself  requires  some  other  contribution  from  each  indi- 
vidual, besides  the  particular  duties  of  his  profession.  And,  if  no 
such  liberal  intercourse  be  established,  it  is  the  common  failing  of 
human  nature,  to  be  engrossed  with  petty  views  and  interests,  to 
underrate  the  importance  of  all  in  which  we  are  not  concerned, 
and  to  carry  our  partial  notions  into  cases  where  they  are  inappli- 
cable, to  act,  in  short,  as  so  many  unconnected  units,  displacing 
and  repelling  one  another.*^ 

"  In  the  cultivation  of  Hterature  is  found  that  common  link, 

'which,  among  the  higher  and  middling  departments  of  life,  unites 

the  jarring  sects  and  subdivisions  into  one  interest,  which  supplies 

common  topics,  and  kindles  common  feelings,.unmixed  with  those 

narrow  prejudices  with  which  all   professions  are   more  or   less 


344    KNOWLEDGE  IN  RELATION  TO  PROFESSIONAL  SKILL 

infected.  The  knowledge,  too,  which  is  thus  acquired,  expands 
and  enlarges  the  mind,  excites  its  faculties,  and  calls  those  limbs 
and  muscles  into  freer  exercise  which,  by  too  constant  use  in  one 
direction,  not  only  acquire  an  illiberal  air,  but  are  apt  also  to  lose 
somewhat  of  their  native  play  and  energy.  And  thus,  without 
directly  qualifying  a  man  for  any  of  the  employments  of  Ufe,  it 
enriches  and  ennobles  all.  Without  teaching  him  the  peculiar 
business  of  any  one  office  or  calling,  it  enables  him  to  act  his  part 
in  each  of  them  with  better  grace  and  more  elevated  carriage  ; 
and,  if  happily  planned  and  conducted,  is  a  main  ingredient  in 
that  complete  and  generous  education  which  fits  a  man^'to  per- 
form justly,  skilfully,  and  magnanimously,  all  the  offices,  both 
private  and  public,  of  peace  and  war.' "  ^ 

8 

The  view  of  Liberal  Education,  advocated  in  these  extracts,  is 
expanded  by  Mr.  Davison  in  the  Essay  to  which  I  have  already 
referred.  He  lays  more  stress  on  the  "  usefulness "  of  Liberal 
Education  in  the  larger  sense  of  the  word  than  his  predecessor 
in  the  controversy.  Instead  of  arguing  that  the  Utility  of  knowl- 
edge to  the  individual  varies  inversely  with  its  Utility  to  the  pubHc, 
he  chiefly  employs  himself  on  the  suggestions  contained  in  Dr. 
Copleston's  last  sentences.  He  shows,  first,  that  a  Liberal  Edu- 
cation is  something  far  higher,  even  in  the  scale  of  Utility,  than 
what  is  commonly  called  a  Useful  Education,  and  next,  that  it 
is  necessary  or  useful  for  the  purposes  even  of  that  Professional 
Education  which  commonly  engrosses  the  title  of  Useful.  The 
former  of  these  two  theses  he  recommends  to  us  in  an  argument 
from  which  the  following  passages  are  selected  :  — 

"  It  is  to  take  a  very  contracted  view  of  life,"  he  says,  "  to 
think  with  great  anxiety  how  persons  may  be  educated  to  superior 
skill  in  their  department,  comparatively  neglecting  or  excluding 
the  more  liberal  and  enlarged  cultivation.  In  his  (Mr.  Edge- 
worth's)  system,  the  value  of  every  attainment  is  to  be  measured 
by  its  subserviency-  to  a  calling.  The  specific  duties  of  that  call- 
ing are  exalted  at  the  cost  of  those  free  and  independent  tastes 
and  virtues  which  come  in  to  sustain  the  common  relations  of 

1  Vide  Milton  on  Education. 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN  345 

society,  and  raise  the  individual  in  them.  In  short,  a  man  is  to 
be  usurped  by  his  profession.  He  is  to  be  clothed  in  its  garb 
from  head  to  foot.  His  virtues,  his  science,  and  his  ideas  are  all 
to  be  put  into  a  gown  or  uniform,  and  the  whole  man  to  be 
shaped,  pressed,  and  stiffened,  in  the  exact  mould  of  his  technical 
character.  Any  interloping  accomplishments,  or  a  faculty  which 
cannot  be  taken  into  public  pay,  if  they  are  to  be  indulged  in  him 
at  all,  must  creep  along  under  the  cloak  of  his  more  serviceable 
privileged  merits.  Such  is  the  state  of  perfection  to  which  the 
spirit  and  general  tendency  of  this  system  would  lead  us. 

"  But  the  professional  character  is  not  the  only  one  which  a  per- 
son engaged  in  a  profession  has  to  support.  He  is  not  always 
upon  duty.  There  are  services  he  owes,  which  are  neither  paro- 
chial, nor  forensic,  nor  military,  nor  to  be  described  by  any  such 
epithet  of  civil  regulation,  and  yet  are  in  no  wise  inferior  to  those 
that  bear  these  authoritative  titles  ;  inferior  neither  in  their  intrinsic 
value,  nor  their  moral  import,  nor  their  impression  upon  society. 
As  a  friend,  as  a  companion,  as  a  citizen  at  large  ;  in  the  connec- 
tions of  domestic  life ;  in  the  improvement  and  embellishment  of 
his  leisure,  he  has  a  sphere  of  action,  revolving,  if  you  please, 
within  the  sphere  of  his  profession,  but  not  clashing  with  it ;  in 
which  if  he  can  show  none  of  the  advantages  of  an  improved 
understanding,  whatever  may  be  his  skill  or  proficiency  in  the 
other,  he  is  no  more  than  an  ill-educated  man. 

"  There  is  a  certain  faculty  in  which  all  nations  of  any  refine- 
ment are  great  practitioners.  It  is  not  taught  at  school  or  college 
as  a  distinct  science ;  though  it  deserves  that  what  is  taught  there 
should  be  made  to  have  some  reference  to  it ;  nor  is  it  endowed 
at  all  by  the  public  ;  everybody  being  obliged  to  exercise  it  for 
himself  in  person,  which  he  does  to  the  best  of  his  skill.  But  in 
nothing  is  there  a  greater  difference  than  in  the  manner  of  doing 
it.  The  advocates  of  professional  learning  will  smile  when  we  tell 
them  that  this  same  faculty  which  we  would  have  encouraged,  is 
simply  that  of  speaking  good  sense  in  English,  without  fee  or 
reward,  in  common  conversation.  They  will  smile  when  we  lay 
some  stress  upon  it ;  but  in  reality  it  is  no  such  trifle  as  they 
imagine.  Look  into  the  huts  of  savages,  and  see,  for  there  is 
nothing  to   listen  to,  the  dismal  blank  of  their  stupid  hours  of 


346     KNOWLEDGE  IN  RELATION  TO  PROFESSIONAL  SKILL 

silence ;  their  professional  avocations  of  war  and  hunting  are 
over ;  and,  having  nothing  to  do,  they  have  nothing  to  say.  Turn 
to  improved  life,  and  you  find  conversation  in  all  its  forms  the 
medium  of  something  more  than  an  idle  pleasure ;  indeed,  a  very 
active  agent  in  circulating  and  forming  the  opinions,  tastes,  and 
feelings  of  a  whole  people.  It  makes  of  itself  a  considerable  affair. 
Its  topics  are  the  most  promiscuous  —  all  those  which  do  not 
belong  to  any  particular  province.  As  for  its  power  and  influence, 
we  may  fairly  say  that  it  is  of  just  the  same  consequence  to  a 
man's  immediate  society,  how  he  talks,  as  how  he  acts.  Now  of 
all  those  who  furnish  their  share  to  rational  conversation,  a  mere 
adept  in  his  own  art  is  universally  admitted  to  be  the  worst.  The 
sterility  and  uninstructiveness  of  such  a  person's  social  hours  are 
quite  proverbial.  Or  if  he  escape  being  dull,  it  is  only  by  launch- 
ing into  ill-timed,  learned  loquacity.  We  do  not  desire  of  him 
lectures  or  speeches ;  and  he  has  nothing  else  to  give.  Among 
benches  he  may  be  powerful ;  but  seated  on  a  chair  he  is  quite 
another  person.  On  the  other  hand,  we  may  affirm,  that  one  of 
the  best  companions  is  a  man  who,  to  the  accuracy  and  research 
of  a  profession,  has  joined  a  free  excursive  acquaintance  with  vari- 
ous learning,  and  caught  fi'om  it  the  spirit  of  general  observation."   . 

9  ^ 

Having  thus  shown  that  a  Liberal  Education  is  a  real  benefit  to 
the  subjects  of  it,  as  members  of  society,  in  the  various  duties  and 
circumstances  and  accidents  of  life,  he  goes  on,  in  the  next  place, 
to  show  that,  over  and  above  those  direct  services  which  might 
fairly  be  expected  of  it,  it  actually  subserves  the  discharge  of 
those  particular  functions,  and  the  pursuit  of  those  particular 
advantages,  which  are  connected  with  professional  exertion,  and 
to  which  Professional  Education  is  directed. 

"  We  admit,"  he  observes,  "  that  when  a  person  makes  a  busi- 
ness of  one  pursuit,  he  is  in  the  right  way  to  eminence  in  it ;  and 
that  divided  attention  will  rarely  give  excellence  in  many.  But 
our  assent  will  go  no  further.  For,  to  think  that  the  way  to  pre- 
pare a  person  for  excelling  in  any  one  pursuit  (and  that  is  the 
only  point  in  hand),  is  to  fetter  his  early  studies,  and  cramp  the 
first  development  of  his  mind,  by  a  reference  to  the  exigencies  of 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN  347 

that  pursuit  barely,  is  a  very  different  notion,  and  one  which,  we 
apprehend,  deserves  to  be  exploded  rather  than  received.  Pos- 
sibly a  few  of  the  abstract,  insulated  kinds  of  learning  might  be 
approached  in  that  way.  The  exceptions  to  be  made  are  very 
few,  and  need  not  be  recited.  But  for  the  acquisition  of  pro- 
fessional and  practical  ability  such  maxims  are  death  to  it.  The 
main  ingredients  of  that  ability  are  requisite  knowledge  and  culti- 
vated faculties;  but,  of  the  two,  the  latter  is  by  far  the  chief.  A 
man  of  well  improved  faculties  has  the  command  of  another's 
knowledge.  A  man  without  them,  has  not  the  command  of  his 
own.> 

"  Of  the  intellectual  powers,  the  judgment  is  that  which  takes 
the  foremost  lead  in  hfe.  How  to  form  it  to  the  two  habits  it 
ought  to  possess,  of  exactness  and  vigour,  is  the  problem.  It 
would  be  ignorant  presumption  so  much  as  to  hint  at  any  routine 
of  method  by  which  these  qualities  may  with  certainty  be  imparted 
to  every  or  any  understanding.  Still,  however,  we  may  safely  lay 
it  down  that  they  are  not  to  be  got  '  by  a  gatherer  of  simples,' 
but  are  the  combined  essence  and  extracts  of  many  different 
things,  drawn  from  much  varied  reading  and  discipline,  first,  and 
observation  afterwards.  For  if  there  be  a  single  intelligible  point 
on  this  head,  it  is  that  a  man  who  has  been  trained  to  think  upon 
one  subject  or  for  one  subject  only,  will  never  be  a  good  judge 
even  in  that  one  :  whereas  the  enlargement  of  his  circle  gives 
him  increased  knowledge  and  power  in  a  rapidly  increasing  ratio. 
So  much  do  ideas  act,  not  as  solitary  units,  but  by  grouping  and 
combination ;  and  so  clearly  do  all  the  things  that  fall  within  the 
proper  province  of  the  same  faculty  of  the  mind,  intertwine  with 
and  support  each  other.  Judgment  lives  as  it  were  by  compari- 
son and  discrimination.  Can  it  be  doubted,  then,  whether  the 
range  and  extent  of  that  assemblage  of  things  upon  which  it  is 
practised  in  its  first  essays  are  of  use  to  its  power? 

"  To  open  our  way  a  little  further  on  this  matter,  we  will  define 
what  we  mean  by  the  power  of  judgment ;  and  then  try  to  ascer- 
tain among  what  kind  of  studies  the  improvement  of  it  may  be 
expected  at  all. 

"Judgment  does  not  stand  here  for  a  certain  homely,  useful 
quahty  of  intellect,  that  guards  a  person  from  committing  mis- 


348    KNOWLEDGE  IN  RELATION  TO  PROFESSIONAL  SKILL 

takes  to  the  injury  of  his  fortunes  or  common  reputation  ;  but  for 
that  master-principle  of  business,  Hterature,  and  talent,  which 
gives  him  strength  in  any  subject  he  chooses  to  grapple  with,  and 
enables  him  to  seize  the  strong  point  in  it.  Whether  this  defini- 
tion be  metaphysically  correct  or  not,  it  comes  home  to  the  sub- 
stance of  our  inquiry.  It  describes  the  power  that  every  one 
desires  to  possess  when  he  comes  to  act  in  a  profession,  or  else- 
where ;  and  corresponds  with  our  best  idea  of  a  cultivated  mind. 

"  Next,  it  will  not  be  denied,  that  in  order  to  do  any  good  to 
the  judgment,  the  mind  must  be  employed  upon  such  subjects  as 
come  within  the  cognizance  of  that  faculty,  and  give  some  real 
exercise  to  its  perceptions.  Here  we  have  a  rule  of  selection  by 
which  the  different  parts  of  learning  may  be  classed  for  our  pur- 
pose. Those  which  belong  to  the  province  of  the  judgment  are 
religion  (in  its  evidences  and  interpretation),  ethics,  history,  elo- 
quence, poetry,  theories  of  general  speculation,  the  fine  arts,  and 
works  of  wit.  Great  as  the  variety  of  these  large  divisions  of  learn- 
ing may  appear,  they  are  all  held  in  union  by  two  capital  principles 
of  connexion.  First,  they  are  all  quarried  out  of  one  and  the 
same  great  subject  of  man's  moral,  social,  and  feeling  nature.  And 
secondly,  they  are  all  under  the  control  (more  or  less  strict)  of 
the  same  power  of  moral  reason." 

"  If  these  studies,"  he  continues,  "  be  such  as  give  a  direct  play 
and  exercise  to  the  faculty  of  the  judgment,  then  they  are  the 
true  basis  of  education  for  the  active  and  inventive  powers,  whether 
destined  for  a  profession  or  any  other  use.  Miscellaneous  as  the 
assemblage  may  appear,  of  history,  eloquence,  poetry,  ethics,  etc., 
blended  together,  they  will  all  conspire  in  an  union  of  effect. 
They  are  necessary  mutually  to  explain  and  interpret  each  other. 
The  knowledge  derived  from  them  all  will  amalgamate,  and  the 
habits  of  a  mind  versed  and  practised  in  them  by  turns  will  join 
to  produce  a  richer  vein  of  thought  and  of  more  general  and  prac- 
tical application  than  could  be  obtained  of  any  single  one,  as  the 
fusion  of  the  metals  into  Corinthian  brass  gave  the  artist  his  most 
ductile  and  perfect  material.  Might  we  venture  to  imitate  an 
author  (whom  indeed  it  is  much  safer  to  take  as  an  authority  than 
to  attempt  to  copy),  Lord  Bacon,  in  some  of  his  concise  illustra- 
tions of  the  comparative  utility  of  the  different  studies,  we  should 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN  349 

say  that  history  would  give  fulness,  moral  philosophy  strength, 
and  poetry  elevation  to  the  understanding.  Such  in  reality  is  the 
natural  force  and  tendency  of  the  studies ;  but  there  are  few 
minds  susceptible  enough  to  derive  from  them  any  sort  of  virtue 
adequate  to  those  high  expressions.  We  must  be  contented 
therefore  to  lower  our  panegyric  to  this,  that  a  person  cannot 
avoid  receiving  some  infusion  and  tincture,  at  least,  of  those 
several  qualities,  from  that  course  of  diversified  reading.  One 
thing  is  unquestionable,  that  the  elements  of  general  reason  are 
not  to  be  found  fully  and  truly  expressed  in  any  one  kind  of  study  ; 
and  that  he  who  would  wish  to  know  her  idiom,  must  read  it  in 
many  books. 

"  If  different  studies  are  useful  for  aiding,  they  are  still  more 
useful  for  correcting  each  other ;  for  as  they  have  their  particular 
merits  severally,  so  they  have  their  defects,  and  the  most  exten- 
sive acquaintance  with  one  can  produce  only  an  intellect  either 
too  flashy  or  too  jejune,  or  infected  with  some  other  fault  of  con- 
fined reading.     History,  for  example,  shows  things  as  they  are, 
that  is,  the  morals  and  interests  of  men  disfigured  and  perverted 
by  all  their  imperfections  of  passion,  'folly,  and  ambition  ;  philoso- 
phy strips  the  picture  too  much ;    poetry  adorns   it   too   much ; 
the  concentrated  lights  of  the  three  correct   the    false   pecuhar 
colouring  of  each,  and  show  us  the  truth.     The  right  mode  of 
thinking  upon  it  is  to  be  had  from  them  taken  all  together,  as 
every  one  must  know  who  has  seen  their  united  contributions  of 
thought  and  feeling  expressed  in  the  masculine  sentiment  of  our 
immortal  statesman,  Mr.  Burke,  whose  eloquence  is  inferior  only 
to  his  more  admirable  wisdom.     If  any  mind  improved  Hke  his, 
is  to  be  our  instructor,  we  must  go  to  the  fountain  head  of  things 
as  he  did,  and  study  not  his  works  but  his  method  ;  by  the  one  we 
may  become  feeble  imitators,  by  the  other  arrive  at  some  ability 
of  our  own.     But,  as  all  biography  assures  us,  he,  and  every  other 
able  thinker,  has  been  formed,  not  by  a  parsimonious  admeasure- 
ment of  studies  to  some  definite  future  object  (which  is  Mr.  Edge- 
worth's  maxim),  but  by  taking  a  wide  and  liberal  compass,  and 
thinking  a  great  deal  on  many  subjects  with  no  better  end  in  view 
than  because  the  exercise  was  one  which  made  them  more  ra- 
tional and  intelligent  beings." 


3 so    KNOWLEDGE  IN  RELATION  TO  PROFESSIONAL  SKILL 


lO 


But  I  must  bring  these  extracts  to  an  end.  To-day  I  have 
confined  myself  to  saying  that  that  training  of  the  intellect,  which 
is  best  for  the  individual  himself,  best  enables  him  to  discharge 
his  duties  to  society.  The  Philosopher,  indeed,  and  the  man  of 
the  world  differ  in  their  very  notion,  but  the  methods,  by  which 
they  are  respecdvely  formed,  are  pretty  much  the  same.  The 
Philosopher  has  the  same  command  of  matters  Qf  thought,  which 
the  true  citizen  and  gentleman  has  of  matters  of  business  and 
conduct.  If  then  a  practical  end  must  be  assigned  to  a  University 
course,  I  say  it  is  that  of  training  good  members  of  society.  Its 
art  is  the  art  of  social  Hfe,  and  its  end  is  fitness  for  the  world.  It 
neither  confines  its  views  to  particular  professions  on  the  one 
hand,  nor  creates  heroes  or  inspires  genius  on  the  other.  Works 
indeed  of  genius  fall  under  no  art ;  heroic  minds  come  under  no 
rule  ;  a  University  is  not  a  birthplace  of  poets  or  of  immortal 
authors,  of  founders  of  schools,  leaders  of  colonies,  or  conquerors 
of  nations.  It  does  not  promise  a  generation  of  Aristotles  or 
Newtons,  of  Napoleons  or  Washingtons,  of  Raphaels  or  Shake- 
speares,  though  such  miracles  of  nature  it  has  before  now  con- 
tained within  its  precincts.  Nor  is  it  content  on  the  other  hand 
with  forming  the  critic  or  the  experimentalist,  the  economist  or 
the  engineer,  though  such  too  it  includes  within  its  scope.  But 
a  University  training  is  the  great  ordinary  means  to  a  great  but 
ordinary  end ;  it  aims  at  raising  the  intellectual  tone  of  society, 
at  cultivating  the  public  mind,  at  purifying  the  national  taste,  at 
supplying  true  principles  to  popular  enthusiasm  and  fixed  aims 
to  popular  aspiration,  at  giving  enlargement  and  sobriety  to  the 
ideas  of  the  age,  at  facilitating  the  exercise  of  political  power,  and 
refining  the  intercourse  of  private  life.  It  is  the  education  which 
gives  a  man  a  clear  conscious  view  of  his  own  opinions  and  judg- 
ments, a  truth  in  developing  them,  an  eloquence  in  expressing 
them,  and  a  force  in  urging  them.  It  teaches  him  to  see  things 
as  they  are,  to  go  right  to  the  point,  to  disentangle  a  skein  of 
thought,  to  detect  what  is  sophistical,  and  to  discard  what  is  irrele- 
vant. It  prepares  him  to  fill  any  post  with  credit,  and  to  master 
any  subject  with  facility.    It  shows  him  how  to  accommodate  him- 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN  35 1 

self  to  Others,  how  to  throw  himself  into  their  state  of  mind,  how 
to  bring  before  them  his  own,  how  to  influence  them,  how  to 
come  to  an  understanding  with  them,  how  to  bear  with  thern. 
He  is  at  home  in  any  society,  he  has  common  ground  with  every 
class ;  he  knows  when  to  speak  and  when  to  be  silent ;  he  is  able 
to  converse,  he  is  able  to  listen  ;  he  can  ask  a  question  pertinently, 
and  gain  a  lesson  seasonably,  when  he  has  nothing  to  impart  him- 
self; he  is  ever  ready,  yet  never  in  the  way ;  he  is  a  pleasant 
companion,  and  a  comrade  you  can  depend  upon ;  he  knows 
when  to  be  serious  and  when  to  trifle,  and  he  has  a  sure  tact 
which  enables  him  to  trifle  with  gracefulness  and  to  be  serious 
with  effect.  He  has  the  repose  of  a  mind  which  lives  in  itself, 
while  it  lives  in  the  world,  and  which  has  resources  for  its  happi- 
ness at  home  when  it  cannot  go  abroad.  He  has  a  gift  which 
serves  him  in  public,  and  supports  him  in  retirement,  without 
which  good  fortune  is  but  vulgar,  and  with  which  failure  and  dis- 
appointment have  a  charm.  The  art  which  tends  to  make  a  man 
all  this,  is  in  the  object  which  it  pursues  as  useful  as  the  art  of 
wealth  or  the  art  of  health,  though  it  is  less  susceptible  of  method, 
and  less  tangible,  less  certain,  less  complete  in  its  result. 


THE    AMERICAN   SCHOLAR 

RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 

[An  oration  delivered  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Harvard 
College,  August  31,  1837.     The  text  is  that  <3f  the  second  edition,  1838.] 

Mr.  President  and  Gentlemen, 

I  GREET  you  on  the  recommencement  of  our  literary  year. 
Our  anniversary  is  one  of  hope,  and,  perhaps,  not  enough  of  labor. 
We  do  not  meet  for  games  of  strength  or  skill,  for  the  recitation 
of  histories,  tragedies  and  odes,  like  the  ancient  Greeks ;  for 
parliaments  of  love  and  poesy,  like  the  Troubadours  ;  nor  for  the 
advancement  of  science,  like  our  cotemporaries  in  the  British 
and  European  capitals.  Thus  far,  our  holiday  has  been  simply  a 
friendly  sign  of  the  survival  of  the  love  of  letters  amongst  a  people 
too  busy  to  give  to  letters  any  more.     As  such,  it  is  precious  as  the 


352  THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR 

sign  of  an  indestructible  instinct.  Perhaps  the  time  is  already 
come,  when  it  ought  to  be,  and  will  be,  something  else  ;  when  the 
sluggard  intellect  of  this  continent  will  look  from  under  its  iron 
lids,  and  fill  the  postponed  expectation  of  the  world  with  something 
better  than  the  exertions  of  mechanical  skill.  Our  day  of  depen- 
dence, our  long  apprenticeship  to  the  learning  of  other  lands,  draws 
to  a  close.  The  millions,  that  around  us  are  rushing  into  hfe,  can- 
not always  be  fed  on  the  sere  remains  of  foreign  harvests.  Events, 
actions  arise,  that  must  be  sung,  that  will  sing  themselves.  Who 
can  doubt  that  poetry  will  revive  and  lead  in  a  new  age,  as  the 
star  in  the  constellation  Harp,  which  now  flames  in  our  zenith, 
astronomers  announce,  shall  one  day  be  the  pole-star  for  a  thou- 
sand years? 

In  the  light  of  this  hope,  I  accept  the  topic  which  not  only 
usage,  but  the  nature  of  our  association,  seem  to  prescribe  to 
this  day,  —  the  American  Scholar.  Year  by  year,  we  come  up 
hither  to  read  one  more  chapter  of  his  biography.  Let  us  in- 
quire what  new  hghts,  new  events  and  more  days,  have  thrown  on 
his  character,  his  duties,  and  his  hopes. 

It  is  one  of  those  fables,  which,  out  of  an  unknown  antiquity,  coi^- 
vey  an  unlooked-for  wisdom,  that  the  gods,  in  the  beginning, 
divided  Man  into  men,  that  he  might  be  more  helpful  to  himself; 
just  as  the  hand  was  divided  into  fingers,  the  better  to  answer  its 
end. 

The  old  fable  covers  a  doctrine  ever  new  and  sublime ;  that 
there  is  One  Man,  —  present  to  all  particular  men  only  partially, 
or  through  one  faculty ;  and  that  you  must  take  the  whole  society 
to  find  the  whole  man.  Man  is  not  a  farmer,  or  a  professor,  or 
an  engineer,  but  he  is  all.  Man  is  priest,  and  scholar,  and  states- 
man, and  producer,  and  soldier.  In  the  divided  or  social  state 
these  functions  are  parcelled  out  to  individuals,  each  of  whom  aims 
to  do  his  stint  of  the  joint  work,  whilst  each  other  performs  his. 
The  fable  implies  that  the  individual,  to  possess  himself,  must 
sometimes  return  from  his  own  labor  to  embrace  all  the  other 
laborers.  But  unfortunately,  this  original  unit,  this  fountain  of 
power,  has  been  so  distributed  to  multitudes,  has  been  so  minutely 
subdivided  and  peddled  out,  that  it  is  spilled  into  drops,  and  can- 
not be  gathered.     The  state  of  society  is  one  iii  which  the  mQtfl' 


RALPH    WALDO  EMERSON  353 

bers  have  suffered  amputation  from  the  trunk,  and  strut  about  so 
many  walking  monsters,  —  a  good  finger,  a  neck,  a  stomach,  an 
elbow,  but  never  a  man. 

Man  is  thus  metamorphosed  into  a  thing,  into  many  things. 
The  planter,  who  is  Man  sent  out  into  the  field  to  gather  food,  is 
seldom  cheered  by  any  idea  of  the  true  dignity  of  his  ministry. 
He  sees  his  bushel  and  his  cart,  and  nothing  beyond,  and  sinks 
into  the  farmer,  instead  of  Man  on  the  farm.  The  tradesman 
scarcely  ever  gives  an  ideal  worth  to  his  work,  but  is  ridden  by  the 
routine  of  his  craft,  and  the  soul  is  subject  to  dollars.  The  priest 
becomes  a  form  ;  the  attorney,  a  statute-book ;  the  mechanic,  a 
machine  ;  the  sailor,  a  rope  of  the  ship. 

In  this  distribution  of  functions,  the  scholar  is  the  delegated 
intellect.  In  the  right  state,  he  is  Man  Thinking.  In  the  degen- 
erate state,  when  the  victim  of  society,  he  tends  to  become  a  mere 
thinker,  or,  still  worse,  the  parrot  of  other  men's  thinking. 

In  this  view  of  him,  as  Man  Thinking,  the  theory  of  his  office 
is  contained.  Him  nature  solicits  with  all  her, placid,  all  her 
monitory  pictures.  Him  the  past  instructs.  Him  the  future  invites. 
Is  not,  indeed,  every  man  a  student,  and  do  not  all  things  exist  for 
the  student's  behoof?  And,  finally,  is  not  the  true  scholar  the 
only  true  master?  But^as  the  old  oracle  said,  "  All  things  have  two 
handles.  Beware  of  the  wrong  one."  In  life,  too  often,  the 
scholar  errs  with  mankind  and  forfeits  his  privilege.  Let  us  see 
him  in  his  school,  and  consider  him  in  reference  to  the  main 
influences  he  receives. 

I.  The  first  in  time  and  the  first  in  importance  of  the  influences 
upon  the  mind  is  that  of  nature.  Every  day,  the  sun  ;  and,  after 
sunset,  night  and  her  stars.  Ever  the  winds  blow ;  ever  the  grass 
grows.  Every  day,  men  and  women,  conversing,  beholding  and  be- 
holden. The  scholar  must  needs  stand  wistful  and  admiring  before 
this  grand  spectacle.  He  must  settle  its  value  in  his  mind.  What 
is  nature  to  him?  There  is  never  a  beginning,  there  is  never  an 
end,  to  the  inexplicable  continuity  of  this  web  of  God,  but  always 
circular  power  returning  into  itself.  Therein  it  resembles  his  own 
spirit,  whose  beginning,  wliose  ending,  he  never  can  find,  —  so 
entire,  so  boundless.  Far,  too,  as  her  splendors  shine,  system  on 
system   shooting   like   rays,  upward,  downward,  without   centre, 

2A 


354  1^^^  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR 

without  circumference^  —  in  the  mass  and  in  the  particle,  Nature 
hastens  to  render  account  of  herself  to  the  mind.  Classification 
begins.  To  the  young  mind,  every  thing  is  individual,  stands  by 
itself.  By  and  by,  it  finds  how  to  join  two  things  and  see  in  them 
one  nature  ;  then  three,  then  three  thousand ;  and  so,  tyrannized 
over  by  its  own  unifying  instinct,  it  goes  on  tying  things  together, 
diminishing  anomalies,  discovering  roots  running  under  ground, 
whereby  contrary  and  remote  things  cohere  and  flower  out  from 
one  stem.  It  presently  learns  that,  since  the  dawn  of  history  there 
has  been  a  constant  accumulation  and  classifying  of  facts.  But 
what  is  classification  but  the  perceiving  that  these  objects  are  not 
chaotic,  and  are  not  foreign,  but  have  a  law  which  is  also  a  law 
of  the  human  mind?  The  astronomer  discovers  that  geometry,  a 
pure  abstraction  of  the  human  mind,  is  the  measure  of  planetary 
motion.  The  chemist  finds  proportions  and  intelligible  method 
throughout  matter  ;  and  science  is  nothing  but  the  finding  of  anal- 
ogy, identity,  in  the  most  remote  parts.  The  ambitious  soul  sits 
down  before  each  refractory  fact ;  one  after  another  reduces  all 
strange  constitutions,  all  new  powers,  to  their  class  and  their  law, 
and  goes  on  for  ever  to  animate  the  last  fibre  of  organization,  the 
outskirts  of  nature,  by  insight. 

Thus  to  him,  to  this  school-boy  under  the  bending  dome  of  day, 
is  suggested  that  he  and  it  proceed  from  one  root ;  one  is  leaf  and 
one  is  flower;  relation,  sympathy,  stirring  in  every  vein.  And 
what  is  that  Root?  Is  not  that  the  soul  of  his  soul?  —  A  thought 
too  bold,  —  a  dream  too  wild.  Yet  when  this  spiritual  light  shall 
have  revealed  the  law  of  more  earthly  natures,  —  when  he  has 
learned  to  worship  the  soul,  and  to  see  that  the  natural  philosophy 
that  now  is,  is  only  the  first  gropings  of  its  gigantic  hand,  he  shall 
look  forward  to  an  ever  expanding  knowledge  as  to  a  becoming 
creator.  He  shall  see  that  nature  is  the  opposite  of  the  soul, 
answering  to  it  part  for  part.  One  is  seal,  and  one  is  print.  Its 
beauty  is  the  beauty  of  his  own  mind.  Its  laws  are  the  laws  of 
his  own  mind.  Nature  then  becomes  to  him  the  measure  of  his 
attainments.  So  much  of  nature  as  he  is  ignorant  of,  so  much  of 
his  own  mind  does  he  not  yet  possess.  And,  in  fine,  the  ancient 
precept,  "  Know  thyself,"  and  the  modern  precept,  "  Study  nature," 
become  at  last  one  maxim. 


RALPH   WALDO  EMERSON  355 

II.  The  next  great  influence  into  the  spirit  of  the  scholar  is  the 
mind  of  the  Past,  —  in  whatever  form,  whether  of  literature,  of  art, 
of  institutions,  that  mind  is  inscribed.  Books  are  the  best  type  of 
the  influence  of  the  past,  and  perhaps  we  shall  get  at  the  truth,  — 
learn  the  amount  of  this  influence  more  conveniently,  —  by  con- 
sidering their  value  alone. 

The  theory  of  books  is  noble.  The  scholar  of  the  first  age  re- 
ceived into  him  the  world  around  ;  brooded  thereon  ;  gave  it  the 
new  arrangement  of  his  own  mind,  and  uttered  it  again.  It  came 
into  him,  —  life  ;  it  went  out  from  him,  —  truth.     It  came  to  him, 

—  short-lived  actions  ;  it  went  out  from  him, —  immortal  thoughts. 
It  came  to  him,  —  business;  it  went  from  him,  —  poetry.     It  was, 

—  dead  fact ;  now,  it  is  quick  thought.  It  can  stand,  and  it  can 
go.  It  now  endures,  it  now  flies,  it  now  inspires.  Precisely  in 
proportion  to  the  depth  of  mind  from  which  it  issued,  so  high  does 
it  soar,  so  long  does  it  sing. 

Or,  I  might  say,  it  depends  on  how  far  the  process  had  gone, 
of  transmuting  life  into  truth.  In  proportion  to  the  completeness 
of  the  distillation,  so  will  the  purity  and  imperishableness  of  the 
product  be.  But  none  is  quite  perfect.  As  no  air-pump  can  by 
any  means  make  a  perfect  vacuum,  so  neither  can  any  artist  en- 
tirely exclude  the  conventional,  the  local,  the  perishable  from  his 
book,  or  write  a  book  of  pure  thought,  that  shall  be  as  efficient, 
in  all  respects,  to  a  remote  posterity,  as  to  cotemporaries,  or 
rather  to  the  second  age.  Each  age,  it  is  found,  must  write  its 
own  books ;  or  rather,  each  generation  for  the  next  succeeding. 
The  books  of  an  older  period  will  not  fit  this. 

Yet  hence  arises  a  grave  mischief.  The  sacredness  which 
attaches  to  the  act  of  creation,  —  the  act  of  thought,  —  is  in- 
stantly transferred  to  the  record.  The  poet  chanting  was  felt  to 
be  a  divine  man.  Henceforth  the  chant  is  divine  also.  The 
writer  was  a  just  and  wise  spirit.  Henceforward  it  is  settled,  the 
book  is  perfect ;  as  love  of  the  hero  corrupts  into  worship  of  his 
statue.  Instantly,  the  book  becomes  noxious.  The  guide  is  a 
tyrant.  We  sought  a  brother,  and  lo,  a  governor.  The  sluggish 
and  perverted  mind  of  the  multitude,  slow  to  open  to  the  incur-  ^  , 
sions  of  Reasons,  having  once  so  operied^i|gn|3Q|^M^|i\§4^ii^^,^^^ 
this  book,  stands  upon  it,  and  makes  ah^Mcry  if  it  i^  cfisparaged. 


356  THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR 

Colleges  are  built  on  it.  Books  are  written  on  it  by  thinkers,  not 
by  Man  Thinking ;  by  men  of  talent,  that  is,  who  start  wrong, 
who  set  out  from  accepted  dogmas,  not  from  their  own  sight  of 
principles.  Meek  young  men  grow  up  in  libraries,  believing  it 
their  duty  to  accept  the  views  which  Cicero,  which  Locke,  which 
Bacon,  have  given ;  forgetful  that  Cicero,  Locke,  and  Bacon  were 
only  young  men  in  libraries  when  they  wrote  these  books. 

Hence,  instead  of  Man  Thinking,  we  have  the  bookworm. 
Hence  the  book-learned  class,  who  value  books,  as  such ;  not  as 
related  to  nature  and  the  human  constitution,  but  as  making  a  sort 
of  Third  Estate  with  the  world  and  the  soul.  Hence,  the  restorers 
of  readings,  the  emendators,  the  bibliomaniacs  of  all  degrees. 

This  is  bad  ;  this  is  worse  than  it  seems.  Books  are  the  best 
of  things,  well  used  ;  abused,  among  the  worst.  What  is  the 
right  use?  What  is  the  one  end  which  all  means  go  to  effect? 
They  are  for  nothing  but  to  inspire.  I  had  better  never  see  a 
book  than  to  be  warped  by  its  attraction  clean  out  of  my  own 
orbit,  and  made  a  satellite  instead  of  a  system.  The  one  tiling 
in  the  world  of  value  is  the  active  soul, —  the  soul,  free,  sover- 
eign, active.  This  every  man  is  entitled  to  ;  this  every  man  con- 
tains within  him,  although,  in  almost  all  men,  obstructed,  and  as 
yet  unborn.  The  soul  active  sees  absolute  truth ;  and  utters  truth, 
or  creates.  In  this  action,  it  is  genius ;  not  the  privilege  of  here 
and  there  a  favorite,  but  the  sound  estate  of  every  man.  In  its 
essence,  it  is  progressive.  The  book,  the  college,  the  school  of 
art,  the  institution  of  any  kind,  stop  with  some  past  utterance  of 
genius.  This  is  good,  say  they,  —  let  us  hold  by  this.  They 
pin  me  down.  They  look  backward  and  not  forward.  But  genius 
looks  forward.  The  eyes  of  man  are  set  in  his  forehead,  not  in 
his  hindhead.  Man  hopes.  Genius  creates.  To  create,  —  to 
create,  —  is  the  proof  of  a  divine  presence.  Whatever  talents 
may  be,  if  the  man  create  not,  the  pure  efflux  of  the  Deity  is  not 
his;  —  cinders  and  smoke  there  may  be,  but  not  yet  flame. 
There  are  creative  manners,  there  are  creative  actions,  and  crea- 
tive words ;  manners,  actions,  words,  that  is,  indicative  of  no 
custom  or  authority,  but  springing  spontaneous  from  the  mind's 
own  sense  of  good  and  fair. 

On  the  other  part,  instead  of  being  its  own  seer,  let  it  receive 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  357 

always  from  another  mind  its  truth,  though  it  were  in  torrents  of 
light  without  periods  of  soHtude,  inquest,  and  self-recovery,  and  a 
fatal  disservice  is  done.  Genius  is  always  sufficiently  the  enemy  of 
genius  by  over-influence.  The  hterature  of  every  nation  bears 
me  witness.  The  English  dramatic  poets  have  Shakspearized 
now  for  two  hundred  years. 

Undoubtedly  there  is  a  right  way  of  reading,  so  it  be  sternly 
subordinated.  Man  Thinking  must  not  be  subdued  by  his  instru- 
ments. Books  are  for  the  scholar's  idle  times.  When  we  can 
read  God  directly,  the  hour  is  too  precious  to  be  wasted  in  other 
men's  transcripts  of  their  readings.  But  when  the  intervals  of 
darkness  come,  as  come  they  must,  —  when  the  soul  seeth  not, 
when  the  sun  is  hid,  and  the  stars  withdraw  their  shining, — we 
repair  to  the  lamps  which  were  kindled  by  their  ray,  to  guide  our 
steps  to  the  East  again,  where  the  dawn  is.  We  hear,  that  we 
may  speak.  The  Arabian  proverb  says,  "  A  fig  tree,  looking  on  a 
fig  tree,  becometh  fruitful." 

It  is  remarkable,  the  character  of  the  pleasure  we  derive  from 
the  best  books.  They  impress  us  with  the  conviction  that  one 
nature  wrote  and  the  same  reads.  We  read  the  verses  of  one  of 
the  great  English  poets,  of  Chaucer,  of  Marvell,  of  Dryden,  with 
the  most  modern  joy,  — ^with  a  pleasure,  I  mean,  which  is  in  great 
part  caused  by  the  abstraction  of  all  time  from  their  verses.  There 
is  some  awe  mixed  with  the  joy  of  our  surprise,  when  this  poet, 
who  lived  in  some  past  world,  two  or  three  hundred  years  ago, 
says  that  which  lies  close  to  my  own  soul,  that  which  I  also  had 
well-nigh  thought  and  said.  But  for  the  evidence  thence  afforded 
to  the  philosophical  doctrine  of  the  identity  of  all  minds,  we  should 
suppose  some  pre-established  harmony,  some  foresight  of  souls 
that  were  to  be,  and  some  preparation  of  stores  for  their  future 
wants,  like  the  fact  observed  in  insects,  who  lay  up  food  before 
death  for  the  young  grub  they  shall  never  see. 

I  would  not  be  hurried  by  any  love  of  system,  by  any  exaggera- 
tion of  instincts,  to  underrate  the  Book.  We  all  know  that,  as 
the  human  body  can  be  nourished  on  any  food,  though  it  were 
boiled  grass  and  the  broth  of  shoes,  so  the  human  mind  can  be 
fed  by  any  knowledge.  And  great  and  heroic  men  have  existed, 
who  had  almost  no  other  information  than  by  the  printed  page. 


358  THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR 

I  only  would  say  that  it  needs  a  strong  head  to  bear  that  diet. 
One  must  be  an  inventor  to  read  well.  As  the  proverb  says,  "  He 
that  would  bring  home  the  wealth  of  the  Indies,  must  carry  out 
the  wealth  of  the  Indies."  There  is  then  creative  reading  as  well 
as  creative  writing.  When  the  mind  is  braced  by  labor  and  inven- 
tion, the  page  of  whatever  book  we  read  becomes  luminous  with 
manifold  allusion.  Every  sentence  is  doubly  significant,  and  the 
sense  of  our  author  is  as  broad  as  the  world.  We  then  see,  what 
is  always  true,  that  as  the  seer's  hour  of  vision  is  short  and  rare 
among  heavy  days  and  months,  so  is  its  record,  perchance,  the 
least  part  of  his  volume.  The  discerning  will  read,  in  his  Plato 
or  Shakspeare,  only  that  least  part,  —  only  the  authentic  utter- 
ances of  the  oracle, — and  all  the  rest  he  rejects,  were  it  never 
so  many  times  Plato's  and  Shakspeare's. 

Of  course,  there  is  a  portion  of  reading  quite  indispensable  to  a 
wise  man.  History  and  exact  science  he  must  learn  by  laborious 
reading.  Colleges,  in  like  manner,  have  their  indispensable 
office,  —  to  teach  elements.  But  they  can  only  highly  serve  us, 
when  they  aim  not  to  drill,  but  to  create  ;  when  they  gather  from 
far  every  ray  of  various  genius  to  their  hospitable  halls,  and,  by 
the  concentrated  fires,  set  the  hearts  of  their  youth  on  flame. 
Thought  and  knowledge  are  natures  in  which  apparatus  and  pre- 
tension avail  nothing.  Gowns  and  pecuniary  foundations,  though 
of  towns  of  gold,  can  never  countervail  the  least  sentence  or 
syllable  of  wit.  Forget  this,  and  our  American  colleges  will  recede 
in  their  public  importance,  whilst  they  grow  richer  every  year. 

III.  There  goes  in  the  world  a  notion  that  the  scholar  should 
be  a  recluse,  a  valetudinarian,  —  as  unfit  for  any  handiwork  or 
public  labor  as  a  pen-knife  for  an  axe.  The  so-called  "  practical 
men"  sneer  at  speculative  men,  as  if,  because  they  speculate  or 
see,  they  could  do  nothing.  I  have  heard  it  said  that  the  clergy, 
—  who  are  always,  more  universally  than  any  other  class,  the 
scholars  of  their  day,  —  are  addressed  as  women  ;  that  the  rough, 
spontaneous  conversation  of  men  they  do  not  hear,  but  only  a 
mincing  and  diluted  speech.  They  are  often  virtually  dis- 
franchised ;  and,  indeed,  there  are  advocates  for  their  celibacy. 
As  far  as  this  is  true  of  the  studious  classes,  it  is  not  just  and  wise. 
Action  is  with  the  scholar  subordinate,  but  it  is  essential.     With- 


RALPH    WALDO  EMERSON  359 

out  it,  he  is  not  yet  man.  Without  it,  thought  can  never  ripen  into 
truth.  Whilst  the  world  hangs  before  the  eye  as  a  cloud  of  beauty, 
we  cannot  even  see  its  beauty.  Inaction  is  cowardice,  but  there 
can  be  no  scholar  without  the  heroic  mind.  The  preamble  of 
thought,  the  transition  through  which  it  passes  from  the  uncon- 
scious to  the  conscious,  is  action.  Only  so  much  do  I  know,  as  I 
have  lived.  Instantly  we  know  whose  words  are  loaded  with  life, 
and  whose  not. 

The  world,  —  this  shadow  of  the  soul,  or  other  me,  lies  wide 
around.  Its  attractions  are  the  keys  which  unlock  my  thoughts 
and  make  me  acquainted  with  myself.  I  launch  eagerly  into  this 
resounding  tumult.  I  grasp  the  hands  of  those  next  me,  and  take 
my  place  in  the  ring  to  suffer  and  to  work,  taught  by  an  instinct 
that  so  shall  the  dumb  abyss  be  vocal  with  speech.  I  pierce  its 
order  ;  I  dissipate  its  fear  ;  I  dispose  of  it  within  the  circuit  of  my 
expanding  life.  So  much  only  of  life  as  I  know  by  experience,  so 
much  of  the  wilderness  have  I  vanquished  and  planted,  or  so  far  have 
I  extended  my  being,  my  dominion.  I  do  not  see  how  any  man  can 
afford,  for  the  sake  of  his  nerves  and  his  nap,  to  spare  any  action 
in  which  he  can  partake.  It  is  pearls  and  rubies  to  his  discourse. 
Drudgery,  calamity,  exasperation,  want,  are  instructors  in  elo- 
quence and  wisdom.  The  true  scholar  grudges  every  opportunity 
of  action  past  by,  as  a  loss  of  power. 

It  is  the  raw  material  out  of  which  the  intellect  moulds  her 
splendid  products.  A  strange  process  too,  this  by  which  experi- 
ence is  converted  into  thought,  as  a  mulberry  leaf  is  converted 
into  satin.     The  manufacture  goes  forward  at  all  hours. 

The  actions  and  events  of  our  childhood  and  youth  are  now 
matters  of  calmest  observation.  They  lie  like  fair  pictures  in  the 
air.  Not  so  with  our  recent  actions,  —  with  the  business  which 
we  now  have  in  hand.  On  this  we  are  quite  unable  to  speculate. 
Our  affections  as  yet  circulate  through  it.  We  no  more  feel  or 
know  it  than  we  feel  the  feet,  or  the  hand,  or  the  brain  of  our 
body.  The  new  deed  is  yet  a  part  of  life,  —  remains  for  a  time 
immersed  in  our  unconscious  life.  In  some  contemplative  hour,  it 
detaches  itself  from  the  life  Hke  a  ripe  fruit,  to  become  a  thought 
of  the  mind.  Instantly,  it  is  raised,  transfigured;  the  corruptible 
has  put  on  incorruption.      Always  now  it  is  an  object  of  beauty, 


360  THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR 

however  base  its  origin  and  neighbourhood.  Observe,  too,  the 
impossibility  of  antedating  tliis  act.  In  its  grub  state,  it  cannot 
fly,  it  cannot  shine,  —  it  is  a  dull  grub.  But  suddenly,  without 
observation,  the  selfsame  thing  unfurls  beautiful  wings,  and  is  an 
angel  of  wisdom.  So  is  there  no  fact,  no  event,  in  our  private 
history,  which  shall  not,  sooner  or  later,  lose  its  adhesive,  inert 
form,  and  astonish  us  by  soaring  from  our  body  into  the  empyrean. 
Cradle  and  infancy,  school  and  playground,  the  fear  of  boys,  and 
dogs,  and  ferules,  the  love  of  little  maids  and  berries,  and  many 
another  fact  that  once  filled  the  whole  sky,  are  gone  already ; 
friend  and  relative,  profession  and  party,  town  and  country,  nation 
and  world,  must  also  soar  and  sing. 

Of  course,  he  who  has  put  forth  his  total  strength  in  fit  actions 
has  the  richest  return  of  wisdom.  I  will  not  shut  myself  out  of 
this  globe  of  action  and  transplant  an  oak  into  a  flower-pot,  there 
to  hunger  and  pine ;  nor  trust  the  revenue  of  some  single  faculty, 
and  exhaust  one  vein  of  thought,  much  like  those  Savo)'ards,  who, 
getting  their  livelihood  by  carving  shepherds,  shepherdesses,  and 
smoking  Dutchmen,  for  aU  Europe,  went  out  one  day  to  the  mountain 
to  find  stock,  and  discovered  that  they  had  whittled  up  the  last  of 
their  pine-trees.  Authors  we  have,  in  numbers,  who  have  written 
out  their  vein,  and  who,  moved  by  a  commendable  prudence,  sail 
for  Greece  or  Palestine,  follow  the  trapper  into  the  prairie,  or 
ramble  round  Algiers,  to  replenish  their  merchantable  stock. 

If  it  were  only  for  a  vocabulary,  the  scholar  would  be  covetous 
of  action.  Life  is  our  dictionary.  Years  are  well  spent  in  coun- 
try labors  \  in  town,  —  in  the  insight  into  trades  and  manufactures  ; 
in  frank  intercourse  with  many  men  and  women  ;  in  science  ;  in 
art ;  to  the  one  end  of  mastering  in  all  their  facts  a  language  by 
which  to  illustrate  and  embody  our  perceptions.  I  learn  immedi- 
ately from  any  speaker  how  much  he  has  already  lived,  through 
the  poverty  or  the  splendor  of  his  speech.  Life  lies  behind  us  as 
the  quarry  from  whence  we  get  tiles  and  copestones  for  the  ma- 
sonry of  to-day.  This  is  the  way  to  learn  grammar.  Colleges 
and  books  only  copy  the  language  which  the  field  and  the  work- 
yard  made. 

But  the  final  value  of  action,  like  that  of  books,  and  better  than 
books,  is  that  it  is  a  resource.     That  great  principle  of  Undulation 


RALPH   WALDO  EMERSON  36 1 

in  nature,  that  show's  itself  in  the  inspiring  and  expiring  of  the 
breath;  in  desire  and  satiety;  in  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  sea;  in 
day  and  night ;  in  heat  and  cold ;  and  as  yet  more  deeply  in- 
grained in  every  atom  and  every  fluid,  is  known  to  us  under  the 
name  of  Polarity,  —  these  "  fits  of  easy  transmission  and  reflec- 
tion," as  Newton  called  them,  are  the  law  of  nature  because  they 
are  the  law  of  spirit. 

The  mind  now  thinks ;  now  acts ;  and  each  fit  reproduces  the 
other.  When  the  artist  has  exhausted  his  materials,  when  the  fancy 
no  longer  paints,  when  thoughts  are  no  longer  apprehended,  and 
books  are  a  weariness,  — he  has  always  the  resource  to  live.  Char- 
acter is  higher  than  intellect.  Thinking  is  the  function.  Living  is 
the  functionary.  The  stream  retreats  to  its  source.  A  great  soul 
win  be  strong  to  live,  as  well  as  strong  to  think.  Does  he  lack 
organ  or  medium  to  impart  his  truth  ?  He  can  still  fall  back  on 
this  elemental  force  of  living  them.  This  is  a  total  act.  Think- 
ing is  a  partial  act.  Let  the  grandeur  of  justice  shine  in  his  affairs. 
Let  the  beauty  of  affection  cheer  his  lowly  roof.  Those  "  far 
from  fame,"  who  dwell  and  act  with  him,  will  feel  the  force  of  his 
constitution  in  the  doings  and  passages  of  the  day  better  than 
it  can  be  measured  by  any  public  and  designed  display.  Time 
shall  teach  him  that  the  scholar  loses  no  hour  which  the  man  lives. 
Herein  he  unfolds  the  sacred  germ  of  his  instinct,  screened  from 
influence.  What  is  lost  in  seemliness  is  gained  in  strength.  Not 
out  of  those  on  whom  systems  of  education  have  exhausted  their 
culture,  comes  the  helpful  giant  to  destroy  the  old  or  to  build 
the  new,  but  out  of  unhandselled  savage  nature,  out  of  terrible 
Druids  and  Berserkirs,  come  at  last  Alfred  and  Shakspeare. 

I  hear  therefore  with  joy  whatever  is  beginning  to  be  said  of 
the  dignity  and  necessity  of  labor  to  every  citizen.  There  is  vir- 
tue yet  in  the  hoe  and  the  spade,  for  learned  as  well  as  for  un- 
learned hands.  And  labor  is  everywhere  welcome ;  always  we 
are  invited  to  work ;  only  be  this  limitation  observed,  that  a  man 
shall  not  for  the  sake  of  wider  activity  sacrifice  any  opinion  to  the 
popular  judgments  and  modes  of  action. 

I  have  now  spoken  of  the  education  of  the  scholar  by  nature,  by 
books,  and  by  action.     It  remains  to  say  somewhat  of  his  duties. 

They  are  such  as  become  Man  Thinking.     They  may  all  be 


362  THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR 

comprised  in  self-trust.  The  office  of  the  scholar  is  to  cheer,  to 
raise,  and  to  guide  men  by  showing  them  facts  amidst  appearances. 
He  phes  the  slow,  unhonored,  and  unpaid  task  of  observation. 
Flamsteed  and  Herschel,  in  their  glazed  observatories,  may  cata- 
logue the  stars  with  the  praise  of  all  men,  and,  the  results  being 
splendid  and  useful,  honor  is  sure.  But  he,  in  his  private  observa- 
tory, cataloguing  obscure  and  nebulous  stars  of  the  human  mind, 
which  as  yet  no  man  has  thought  of  as  such,  —  watching  days  and 
months  sometimes  for  a  few  facts ;  correcting  still  his  old  records  ; 
—  must  relinquish  display  and  immediate  fame.  In  the  long 
period  of  his  preparation,  he  must  betray  often  an  ignorance  and 
shiftlessness  in  popular  arts,  incurring  the  disdain  of  the  able  who 
shoulder  him  aside.  Long  he  must  stammer  in  his  speech ;  often 
forego  the  living  for  the  dead.  Worse  yet,  he  must  accept,  —  how 
often  !  poverty  and  solitude.  For  the  ease  and  pleasure  of  treading 
the  old  road,  accepting  the  fashions,  the  education,  the  religion  of 
society,  he  takes  the  cross  of  making  his  own,  and,  of  course,  the 
self-accusation,  the  faint  heart,  the  frequent  uncertainty  and  loss  of 
time,  which  are  the  nettles  and  tangling  vines  in  the  way  of  the  self- 
relying  and  self-directed  ;  and  the  state  of  virtual  hostihty  in  which 
he  seems  to  stand  to  society,  and  especially  to  educated  society. 
For  all  this  loss  and  scorn,  what  offset?  He  is  to  find  consola- 
tion in  exercising  the  highest  functions  of  human  nature.  He  is 
one  who  raises  himself  from  private  considerations  and  breathes 
and  lives  on  public  and  illustrious  thoughts.  He  is  the  world's 
eye.  He  is  the  world's  heart.  He  is  to  resist  the  vulgar  pros- 
perity that  retrogrades  ever  to  barbarism,  by  preserving  and  com- 
municating heroic  sentiments,  noble  biographies,  melodious  verse, 
and  the  conclusions  of  history.  Whatsoever  oracles  the  human 
heart,  in  all  emergencies,  in  all  solemn  hours,  has  uttered  as  its 
commentary  on  the  world  of  actions,  —  these  he  shall  receive  and 
impart.  And  whatsoever  new  verdict  Reason  from  her  inviolable 
seat  pronounces  on  the  passing  men  and  events  of  to-day,  —  this 
he  shall  hear  and  promulgate. 

These  being  his  functions,  it  becomes  him  to  feel  all  confidence 
in  himself,  and  to  defer  never  to  the  popular  cry.  He  and  he 
only  knows  the  world.  The  world  of  any  moment  is  the  merest 
appearance.     Some  great  decorum,  some  fetish  of  a  government, 


RALPH    WALDO   EMERSON  363 

some  ephemeral  trade,  or  war,  or  man,  is  cried  up  by  half  man- 
kind and  cried  down  by  the  other  half,  as  if  all  depended  on  this 
particular  up  or  down.  The  odds  are  that  the  whole  question 
is  not  worth  the  poorest  thought  which  the  scholar  has  lost  in 
listening  to  the  controversy.  Let  him  not  quit  his  belief  that 
a  popgun  is  a  popgun,  though  the  ancient  and  honorable  of  the 
earth  affirm  it  to  be  the  crack  of  doom.  In  silence,  in  steadiness, 
in  severe  abstraction,  let  him  hold  by  himself;  add  observation 
to  observation,  patient  of  neglect,  patient  of  reproach  ;  and  bide 
his  own  time,  —  happy  enough  if  he  can  satisfy  himself  alone 
that  this  day  he  has  seen  something  truly.  Success  treads  on 
every  right  step.  For  the  instinct  is  sure,  that  prompts  him  to 
tell  his  brother  what  he  thinks.  He  then  learns  that  in  going 
down  into  the  secrets  of  his  own  mind  he  has  descended  into  the 
secrets  of  all  minds.  He  learns  that  he  who  has  mastered  any 
law  in  his  private  thoughts,  is  master  to  that  extent  of  all  men 
whose  language  he  speaks,  and  of  all  into  whose  language  his  own 
can  be  translated.  The  poet,  in  utter  solitude  remembering  his 
spontaneous  thoughts  and  recording  them,  is  found  to  have  re- 
corded that  which  men  in  "  cities  vast "  find  true  for  them  also. 
The  orator  distrusts  at  first  the  fitness  of  his  frank  confessions,  — 
his  want  of  knowledge  of  the  persons  he  addresses,  —  until  he  finds 
that  he  is  the  complement  of  his  hearers ;  —  that  they  drink  his 
words  because  he  fulfils  for  them  their  own  nature;  the  deeper 
he  dives  into  his  privatest,  secretest  presentiment,  to  his  wonder 
he  finds  this  is  the  most  acceptable,  most  public,  and  universally 
true.  The  people  delight  in  it ;  the  better  part  of  every  man 
feels,  This  is  my  music ;  this  is  myself. 

In  self-trust,  all  the  virtues  are  comprehended.  Free  should 
the  scholar  be,  —  free  and  brave.  Free  even  to  the  definition  of 
freedom,  "  without  any  hindrance  that  does  not  arise  out  of  his 
own  constitution."  Brave  ;  for  fear  is  a  thing  which  a  scholar 
by  his  very  function  puts  behind  him.  Fear  always  springs  from 
ignorance.  It  is  a  shame  to  him  if  his  tranquillity,  amid  dan- 
gerous times,  arise  from  the  presumption  that,  like  children  and 
women,  his  is  a  protected  class  ;  or  if  he  seek  a  temporary  peace 
by  the  diversion  of  his  thoughts  from  politics  or  vexed  questions, 
hiding  his  head  like  an  ostrich  in  the  flowering  bushes,  peeping 


364  THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR 

into  microscopes,  and  turning  rhymes,  as  a  boy  whistles  to  keep 
his  courage  up.  So  is  the  danger  a  danger  still ;  so  is  the  fear 
worse.  Manlike  let  him  turn  and  face  it.  Let  him  look  into  its 
eye  and  search  its  nature,  inspect  its  origin,  —  see  the  whelping 
of  this  lion,  —  which  Ues  no  great  way  back  ;  he  will  then  find  in 
himself  a  perfect  comprehension  of  its  nature  and  extent :  he  will 
have  made  his  hands  meet  on  the  other  side,  and  can  henceforth 
defy  it  and  pass  on  superior.  The  world  is  his  who  can  see 
through  its  pretension.  What  deafness,  what  stone-blind  cus- 
tom, what  overgrown  error  you  behold  is  there  only  by  suffer- 
ance,—  by  your  sufferance.  See  it  to  be  a  lie,  and  you  have 
already  dealt  it  its  mortal  blow. 

Yes,  we  are  the  cowed,  —  we  the  trustless.  It  is  a  mischievous 
notion  that  we  are  come  late  into  nature  ;  that  the  world  was 
finished  a  long  time  ago.  As  the  world  was  plastic  and  fluid  in 
the  hands  of  God,  so  it  is  ever  to  so  much  of  his  attributes  as  we 
bring  to  it.  To  ignorance  and  sin,  it  is  flint.  They  adapt  them- 
selves to  it  as  they  may  ;  but  in  proportion  as  a  man  has  any  thing 
in  him  divine,  the  firmament  flows  before  him  and  takes  his  signet 
and  form.  Not  he  is  great  who  can  alter  matter,  but  he  who 
can  alter  my  state  of  mind.  They  are  the  kings  of  the  world  who 
give  the  color  of  their  present  thought  to  all  nature  and  all  art, 
and  persuade  men  by  the  cheerful  serenity  of  their  carrying  the 
matter,  that  this  thing  which  they  do  is  the  apple  which  the  ages 
have  desired  to  pluck,  now  at  last  ripe,  and  inviting  nations  to  the 
harvest.  The  great  man  makes  the  great  thing.  Wherever  Mac- 
donald  sits,  there  is  the  head  of  the  table.  Linnseus  makes  bot- 
any the  most  alluring  of  studies  and  wins  it  from  the  farmer  and 
the  herb-woman ;  Davy,  chemistry ;  and  Cuvier,  fossils.  The 
day  is  always  his  who  works  in  it  with  serenity  and  great  aims. 
The  unstable  estimates  of  men  crowd  to  him  whose  mind  is  filled 
with  a  truth,  as  the  heaped  waves  of  the  Atlantic  follow  the  moon. 
For  this  self-trust,  the  reason  is  deeper  than  can  be  fathomed, 
—  darker  than  can  be  enhghtened.  I  might  not  carry  with  me 
the  feeling  of  my  audience  in  stating  my  own  belief.  But  I  have 
already  shown  the  ground  of  my  hope,  in  adverting  to  the  doctrine 
that  man  is  one.  I  believe  man  has  been  wronged ;  he  has 
wronged  himself.      He   has  almost  lost  the  light  that  can   lead 


RALPH   WALDO  EMERSON  365 

him  back  to  his  prerogatives.  Men  are  become  of  no  account. 
Men  in  history,  men  in  the  world  of  to-day  are  bugs,  are  spawn, 
and  are  called  "  the  mass  "  and  "  the  herd."  In  a  century,  in  a 
millennium,  one  or  two  men  ;  that  is  to  say,  ■ —  one  or  two  approxi- 
mations to  the  right  state  of  every  man.  All  the  rest  behold  in 
the  hero  or  the  poet  their  own  green  and  crude  being, — ripened; 
yes,  and  are  content  to  be  less,  so  that  may  attain  to  its  full 
stature.  What  a  testimony,  —  full  of  grandeur,  full  .of  pity,  is  borne 
to  the  demands  of  his  own  nature,  by  the  poor  clansman,  the 
poor  partisan,  who  rejoices  in  the  glory  of  his  chief  The  poor  and 
the  low  find  some  amends  to  their  immense  moral  capacity,  for 
their  acquiescence  in  a  political  and  social  inferiority.  They  are 
content  to  be  brushed  like  flies  from  the  path  of  a  great  person, 
so  that  justice  shall  be  done  by  him  to  that  common  nature  which 
it  is  the  dearest  desire  of  all  to  see  enlarged  and  glorified.  They 
sun  themselves  in  the  great  man's  light,  and  feel  it  to  be  their 
own  element.  They  cast  the  dignity  of  man  from  their  downtrod 
selves  upon  the  shoulders  of  a  hero,  and  will  perish  to  add  one 
drop  of  blood  to  make  that  great  heart  beat,  those  giant  sinews 
combat  and  conquer.     He  lives  for  us,  and  we  live  in  him. 

Men  such  as  they  are,  very  naturally  seek  money  or  power ; 
and  power  because  it  is  as  good  as  money,  —  the  "  spoils,"  so 
called,  "  of  office."  And  why  not?  for  they  aspire  to  the  highest, 
and  this,  in  their  sleep-walking,  they  dream  is  highest.  Wake 
them,  and  they  shall  quit  the  false  good  and  leap  to  the  true,  and 
leave  governments  to  clerks  and  desks.  This  revolution  is  to  be 
wrought  by  the  gradual  domestication  of  the  idea  of  Culture. 
The  main  enterprise  of  the  world  for  splendor,  for  extent,  is  the 
upbuilding  of  a  man.  Here  are  the  materials  strewn  along  the 
ground.  The  private  life  of  one  man  shall  be  a  more  illustrious 
monarchy,  —  more  formidable  to  its  enemy,  more  sweet  and  serene 
in  its  influence  to  its  friend,  than  any  kingdom  in  history.  For  a 
man,  rightly  viewed,  comprehendeth  the  particular  natures  of  all 
men.  Each  philosopher,  each  bard,  each  actor  has  only  done  for 
me,  as  by  a  delegate,  what  one  day  I  can  do  for  myself.  The 
books  which  once  we  valued  more  than  the  apple  of  the  eye,  we 
have  quite  exhausted.  What  is  that  but  saying  that  we  have  come 
up  with  the  point  of  view  which  the  universal  mind  took  through 


366  THE.   AMERICAN  SCHOLAR 

the  eyes  of  one  scribe ;  we  have  been  that  man,  and  have  passed 
on.  First,  one  ;  then  another ;  we  drain  all  cisterns,  and,  waxing 
greater  by  all  these  supplies,  we  crave  a  better  and  more  abun- 
dant food.  The  man  has  never  lived  that  can  feed  us  ever.  The 
human  mind  cannot  be  enshrined  in  a  person  who  shall  set  a 
barrier  on  any  one  side  to  this  unbounded,  unboundable  empire. 
It  is  one  central  fire,  which,  flaming  now  out  of  the  lips  of  Etna, 
lightens  the  capes  of  Sicily  ;  and,  now  out  of  the  throat  of  Vesuvius, 
illuminates  the  towers  and  vineyards  of  Naples.  It  is  one  light 
which  beams  out  of  a  thousand  stars.  It  is  one  soul  which  ani- 
mates all  men. 

But  I  have  dwelt  perhaps  tediously  upon  this  abstraction  of  the 
Scholar.  I  ought  not  to  delay  longer  to  add  what  I  have  to  say 
of  nearer  reference  to  the  time  and  to  this  country. 

Historically,  there  is  thought  to  be  a  difference  in  the  ideas 
which  predominate  over  successive  epochs,  and  there  are  data  for 
marking  the  genius  of  the  Classic,  of  the  Romantic,  and  now  of  the 
Reflective  or  Philosophical  age.  With  the  views  I  have  intimated 
of  the  oneness  or  the  identity  of  the  mind  through  all  individuals, 
I  do  not  much  dwell  on  these  differences.  In  fact,  I  believe  each 
individual  passes  through  all  three.  The  boy  is  a  Greek ;  the 
youth,  romantic ;  the  adult,  reflective.  I  deny  not,  however,  that 
a  revolution  in  the  leading  idea  may  be  distinctly  enough  traced. 

Our  age  is  bewailed  as  the  age  of  Introversion.  Must  that  needs 
be  evil?  We,  it  seems,  are  critical.  We  are  embarrassed  with 
second  thoughts.  We  cannot  enjoy  any  thing  for  hankering  to  know 
whereof  the  pleasure  consists.  We  are  lined  with  eyes.  We  see 
with  our  feet.  The  time  is  infected  with  Hamlet's  unhappiness,  — 

"  Sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought." 

It  is  SO  bad  then?  Sight  is  the  last  thing  to  be  pitied.  Would 
we  be  blind?  Do  we  fear  lest  we  should  outsee  nature  and  God, 
and  drink  truth  dry?  I  look  upon  the  discontent  of  the  literary 
class  as  a  mere  announcement  of  the  fact  that  they  find  them- 
selves not  in  the  state  of  mind  of  their  fathers,  and  regret  the 
coming  state  as  untried ;  as  a  boy  dreads  the  water  before  he  has 
learned  that  he  can  swim.  If  there  is  any  period  one  would  desire 
to  be  born  in,  —  is  it  not  the  age  of  Revolution ;  when  the  old  and 


RALPH   WALDO  EMERSON  367 

the  new  stand  side  by  side  and  admit  of  being  compared  ;  when 
the  energies  of  all  men  are  searched  by  fear  and  by  hope  ;  when  the 
historic  glories  of  the  old  can  be  compensated  by  the  rich  possi- 
bilities of  the  new  era?  This  time,  like  all  times,  is  a  very  good 
one,  if  we  but  know  what  to  do  with  it. 

I  read  with  some  joy  of  the  auspicious  signs  of  the  coming  days, 
as  they  glimmer  already  through  poetry  and  art,  through  philoso- 
phy and  science,  through  church  and  state. 

One  of  these  signs  is  the  fact  that  the  same  movement  which 
effected  the  elevation  of  what  was  called  the  lowest  class  in  the 
state,  assumed  in  literature  a  very  marked  and  as  benign  an 
aspect.  Instead  of  the  sublime  and  beautiful;  the  near,  the  low, 
the  common,  wjts  explored  and  poetized.  Th^t  which  had  been 
negligently  trodden  under  foot  by  those  who  were  harnessing  and 
provisioning  themselves  for  long  journeys  into  far  countries,  is  sud- 
denly found  to  be  richer  than  all  foreign  yarts.  The  hterature  of 
the  poor,  the  feelings  of  the  child,  the-philosophy/Df  the  street, 
the  meaning  of  household  life,  are  the  topics  of  the  time.  It  is 
a  great  stride.  It  is  a"^sim,  —  is  it  not?  of  new  vigor  when  the 
extremities  are  made  actrve,  when  currents  of  warm  life  run  into 
the  hands  and  the  feet.  I  ask  not  for  the  great,  the  remote,  the 
romantic  ;  what  is  doing  in  .Italy  or  Arabia ;  what  is  Greek  art,  or 
Provengal  minstrelsy ;  I  embrace  the  common,  I  explore  and  sit 
at  the  feet  of  the  familiar,  thS  16\^.  Give  me  insight  into  to-day, 
and  you  may  have  the  antique  and  future  worlds.  What  would 
we  really  know  the  meaning  of  ?  The  meal  in  the  firkin ;  the 
milk  in  the  pan ;  the  ballad  in  the  street ;  the  news  of  the  boat ; 
the  glance  of  the  eye  ;  the  form  and  the  gait  of  the  body  ;  —  show 
me  the  ultimate  reason  of  these  matters ;  show  me  the  sublime 
presence  of  the  highest  spiritual  cause  lurking,  as  always  it  does 
lurk,  in  these  suburbs  and  extremities  of  nature  ;  let  me  see  every 
trifle  bristling  with  the  polarity  that  ranges  it  instantly  on  an  eter- 
nal law ;  and  the  shop,  the  plough,  and  the  ledger  referred  to  the 
like  cause  by  which  light  undulates  and  poets  sing; — and  the 
world  lies  no  longer  a  dull  miscellany  and  lumber-room,  but  has  form 
and  order ;  there  is  no  trifle  ;  there  is  no  puzzle  ;  but  one  design 
unites  and  animates  the  farthest  pinnacle  and  the  lowest  trench. 

This  idea  has  inspired  the  genius  of  Goldsmith,  Burns,  Cowper, 


368  THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR 

and,  in  a  newer  time,  of  Goethe,  Wordsworth,  and  Carlyle.  This 
idea  they  have  differently  followed  and  with  various  success.  In 
contrast  with  their  writing,  the  style  of  Pope,  of  Johnson,  of  Gib- 
bon, looks  cold  and  pedantic.  This  writing  is  blood-warm.  Man 
is  surprised  to  find  that  things  near  are  not  less  beautiful  and 
wondrous  than  things  remote.  The  near  explains  the  far.  The 
drop  is  a  small  ocean.  A  man  is  related  to  all  nature.  This  per- 
ception of  the  worth  of  the  vulgar  is  fruitful  in  discoveries. 
Goethe,  in  this  very  thing  the  most  modern  of  the  moderns,  has 
shown  us,  as  none  ever  did,  the  genius  of  the  ancients. 

There  is  one  man  of  genius  who  has  done  much  for  this  phi- 
losophy of  life,  whose  literary  value  has  never  yet  been  rightly  esti- 
mated ;  —  I  mean  Emanuel  Swedenborg.  The  most  imaginative 
of  men,  yet  writing  with  the  precision  of  a  mathematician,  he 
endeavored  to  engraft  a  purely  philosophical  Ethics  on  the  popu- 
lar Christianity  of  his  time.  Such  an  attempt,  of  course,  must  have 
difficulty  which  no  genius  could  surmount.  But  he  saw  and 
showed  the  connection  between  nature  and  the  affections  of  the 
soul.  He  pierced  the  emblematic  or  spiritual  character  of  the 
visible,  audible,  tangible  world.  Especially  did  his  shade-loving 
muse  hover  over  and  interpret  the  lower  parts  of  nature  ;  he 
showed  the  mysterious  bond  that  allies  moral  evil  to  the  foul  mate- 
rial forms,  and  has  given  in  epical  parables  a  theory  of  insanity,  of 
beasts,  of  unclean  and  fearful  things. 

Another  sign  of  our  times,  also  marked  by  an  analogous  political 
movement,  is  the  new  importance  given  to  the  single  person.  Every 
thing  that  tends  to  insulate  the  individual,  —  to  surround  him  with 
barriers  of  natural  respect,  so  that  each  man  shall  feel  the  world  is 
his,  and  man  shall  treat  with  man  as  a  sovereign  state  with  a  sover- 
eign state  ;  —  tends  to  true  union  as  well  as  greatness.  "  I  learned," 
said  the  melancholy  Pestalozzi,  "  that  no  man  in  God's  wide  earth 
is  either  willing  or  able  to  help  any  other  man."  Help  must  come 
from  the  bosom  alone.  The  scholar  is  that  man  who  must  take 
up  into  himself  all  the  ability  of  the  time,  all  the  contributions  of 
the  past,  all  the  hopes  of  the  future.  He  must  be  an  university 
of  knowledges.  If  there  be  one  lesson  more  than  another  which 
should  pierce  his  ear,  it  is,  The  world  is  nothing,  the  man  is  all ; 
in  yourself  is  the  law  of  all  nature,  and  you  know  not  yet  how  a 


RALPH   WALDO  EMERSON  369 

globule  of  sap  ascends  ;  in  yourself  slumbers  the  whole  of  Reason  ; 
it  is  for  you  to  know  all ;  it  is  for  you  to  dare  all.  Mr.  President 
and  Gentlemen,  this  confidence  in  the  unsearched  might  of  man 
belongs,  by  all  motives,  by  all  prophecy,  by  all  preparation,  to  the 
American  Scholar.  We  have  listened  too  long  to  the  courtly 
muses  of  Europe.  The  spirit  of  the  American  freeman  is  already 
suspected  to  be  timid,  imitative,  tame.  Public  and  private  ava- 
rice make  the  air  we  breathe  thick  and  fat.  The  scholar  is  decent, 
indolent,  complaisant.  See  already  the  tragic  consequence.  The 
mind  of  this  country,  taught  to  aim  at  low  objects,  eats  upon  itself. 
There  is  no  work  for  any  but  the  decorous  and  the  complaisant. 
Young  men  of  the  fairest  promise,  who  begin  life  upon  our  shores, 
inflated  by  the  mountain  winds,  shined  upon  by  all  the  stars  of 
God,  find  the  earth  below  not  in  unison  with  these,  —  but  are  hin- 
dered from  action  by  the  disgust  which  the  principles  on  which 
business  is  managed  inspire,  and  turn  drudges,  or  die  of  disgust,  — 
some  of  them  suicides.  What  is  the  remedy?  They  did  not  yet 
see,  and  thousands  of  young  men  as  hopeful  now  crowding  to  the 
barriers  for  the  career  do  not  yet  see,  that  if  the  single  man  plant 
himself  indomitably  on  his  instincts,  and  there  abide,  the  huge 
world  will  come  round  to  him.  Patience,  —  patience  ;  with  the 
shades  of  all  the  good  and  great  for  company ;  and  for  solace  the 
perspective  of  your  own  infinite  life  ;  and  for  work  the  study  and 
the  communication  of  principles,  the  making  those  instincts  prev- 
alent, the  conversion  of  the  world.  Is  it  not  the  chief  disgrace  in 
the  world,  not  to  be  an  unit ;  —  not  to  be  reckoned  one  character  ; 
—  not  to  yield  that  peculiar  fruit  which  each  man  was  created  to 
bear,  but  to  be  reckoned  in  the  gross,  in  the  hundred,  or  the 
thousand,  of  the  party,  the  section,  to  which  we  belong ;  and  our 
opinion  predicted  geographically,  as  the  north,  or  the  south  ? 
Not  so,  brothers  and  friends,  —  please  God,  ours  shall  not  be  so. 
We  will  walk  on  our  own  feet :  we  will  work  with  our  own  hands  ; 
we  will  speak  our  own  minds.  Then  shall  man  be  no  longer  a 
name  for  pity,  for  doubt,  and  for  sensual  indulgence.  The  dread 
of  man  and  the  love  of  man  shall  be  a  wall  of  defence  and  a 
wreath  of  joy  around  all.  A  nation  of  men  will  for  the  first  time 
exist,  because  each  beheves  himself  inspired  by  the  Divine  Soul 
which  also  inspires  all  men. 

2£ 


370         WHERE  I  LIVED,   AND    WHAT  I  LIVED  FOR 

WHERE    I   LIVED,  AND  WHAT  I  LIVED 

FOR 

HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 
[From  Walden,  1854.    The  text  is  that  of  the  first  edition.] 

At  a  certain  season  of  our  life  we  are  accustomed  to  consider 
every  spot  as  the  possible  site  of  a  house.  I  have  thus  surveyed 
the  country  on  every  side  within  a  dozen  miles  of  where  I  live. 
In  imagination  I  have  bought  all  the  farms  in  succession,  for 
all  were  to  be  bought,  and  I  knew  their  price.  I  walked  over 
each  farmer's  premises,  tasted  his  wild  apples,  discoursed  on 
husbandry  with  him,  took  his  farm  at  his  price,  at  any  price, 
mortgaging  it  to  him  in  my  mind  ;  even  put  a  higher  price  on  it, 
—  took  everything  but  a  deed  of  it,  — took  his  word  for  his  deed, 
for  I  dearly  love  to  talk,  —  cultivated  it,  and  him  too  to  some 
extent,  I  trust,  and  withdrew  when  I  had  enjoyed  it  long  enough, 
leaving  him  to  carry  it  on.  This  experience  entitled  me  to  be 
regarded  as  a  sort  of  real-estate  broker  by  my  friends.  Where- 
ever  I  sat,  there  I  might  live,  and  the  landscape  radiated  from 
me  accordingly.  What  is  a  house  but  a  sedes,  a  seat  ?  — better 
if  a  country  seat.  I  discovered  many  a  site  for  a  house  not 
likely  to  be  soon  improved,  which  some  might  have  thought  too 
far  from  the  village,  but  to  my  eyes  the  village  was  too  far  from 
it.  Well,  there  I  might  live,  I  said;  and  there  I  did  live,  for 
an  hour,  a  summer  and  a  winter  life  ;  saw  how  I  could  let  the 
years  run  off,  buffet  the  winter  through,  and  see  the  spring  come 
in.  The  future  inhabitants  of  this  region,  wherever  they  may 
place  their  houses,  may  be  sure  that  they  have  been  anticipated. 
An  afternoon  sufficed  to  lay  out  the  land  into  orchard,  woodlot, 
and  pasture,  and  to  decide  what  fine  oaks  or  pines  should  be 
left  to  stand  before  the  door,  and  whence  each  blasted  tree 
could  be  seen  to  the  best  advantage  ;  and  then  I  let  it  lie,  fal- 
low perchance,  for  a  man  is  rich  in  proportion  to  the  number  of 
things  which  he  can  afford  to  let  alone. 

My  imagination  carried  me  so  far  that  I  even  had  the  refusal 


HENRY  DAVID    THOREAU  37 1 

•of  several  farms,  —  the  refusal  was  all  I  wanted,  —  but  I  never 
got  my  fingers  burned  by  actual  possession.  The  nearest 
that  I  came  to  actual  possession  was  when  I  bought  the  Hollo- 
well  place,  and  had  begun  to  sort  my  seeds,  and  collected 
materials  with  which  to  make  a  wheelbarrow  to  carry  it  on  or  off 
with ;  but  before  the  owner  gave  me  a  deed  of  it,  his  wife  — 
every  man  has  such  a  wife  —  changed  her  mind  and  wished  to 
keep  it,  and  he  offered  me  ten  dollars  to  release  him.  Now,  to 
speak  the  truth,  I  had  but  ten  cents  in  the  world,  and  it  sur- 
passed my  arithmetic  to  tell,  if  I  was  that  man  who  had  ten 
cents,  or  who  had  a  farm,  or  ten  dollars,  or  all  together.  How- 
ever, I  let  him  keep  the  ten  dollars  and  the  farm  too,  for  I  had 
carried  it  far  enough  ;  or  rather,  to  be  generous,  I  sold  him  the 
farm  for  just  what  I  gave  for  it,  and,  as  he  was  not  a  rich  man, 
made  him  a  present  of  ten  dollars,  and  still  had  my  ten  cents, 
and  seeds,  and  materials  for  a  wheelbarrow  left.  I  found  thus 
that  I  had  been  a  rich  man  without  any  damage  to  my  poverty. 
But  I  retained  the  landscape,  and  I  have  since  annually  carried 
off  what  it  yielded  without  a  wheelbarrow.  With  respect  to 
landscapes,  — 

•'  I  am  monarch  of  all  I  survey. 
My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute." 

,  I  have  frequently  seen  a  poet  withdraw,  having  enjoyed  the 
most  valuable  part  of  a  farm,  while  the  crusty  farmer  supposed 
that  he  had  got  a  few  wild  apples  only.  Why,  the  owner  does 
not  know  it  for  many  years  when  a  poet  has  put  his  farm  in 
rhyme,  the  most  admirable  kirad  of  invisible  fence,  has  fairly 
impounded  it,  milked  it,  skimmed  it,  and  got  all  the  cream,  and 
left  the  farmer  only  the  skimmed  milk. 

The  real  attractions  of  the  Hollowell  farm,  to  me,  were :  its 
complete  retirement,  being  about  two  miles  from  the  village, 
half  a  mile  from  the  nearest  neighbor,  and  separated  from  the 
highway  by  a  broad  field ;  its  bounding  on  the  river,  which  the 
owner  said  protected  it  by  its  fogs  from  frosts  in  the  spring, 
though  that  was  nothing  to  me ;  the  gray  color  and  ruinous 
state  of  the  house  and  barn,  and  the  dilapidated  fences,  which 
put  such  an  interval  between  me  and  the  last  occupant ;  the 


372         WHERE  I  LIVED,  AND    WHAT  I  LIVED  FOR 

hollow  and  lichen-covered  apple  trees,  gnawed  by  rabbits,  show- 
ing \yhat  kind  of  neighbors  I  should  have  ;  but  above  all,  the 
recollection  I  had  of  it  from  my  earliest  voyages  up  the  river, 
when  the  house  was  concealed  behind  a  dense  grove  of  red 
maples,  through  which  I  heard  the  house-dog  bark.  I  was  in 
haste  to  buy  it,  before  the  proprietor  finished  getting  out  some 
rocks,  cutting  down  the  hollow  apple  trees,  and  grubbing  up 
some  young  birches  which  had  sprung  up  in  the  pasture,  or,  in 
short,  had  made  any  more  of  his  improvements.  To  enjoy 
these  advantages  I  was  ready  to  carry  it  on  ;  like  Atlas,  to  take 
the  world  on  my  shoulders,  —  I  never  heard  what  compensation 
he  received  for  that, — and  do  all  those  things  which  had  no 
other  motive  or  excuse  but  that  I  might  pay  for  it  and  be  un- 
molested in  my  possession  of  it ;  for  I  knew  all  the  while  that 
it  would  yield  the  most  abundant  crop  of  the  kind  I  wanted  if 
I  could  only  afford  to  let  it  alone.  But  it  turned  out  as  I  have 
said. 

All  that  I  could  say,  then,  with  respect  to  farming  on  a  large 
scale,  (I  have  always  cultivated  a  garden,)  was,  that  I  had  had 
my  seeds  ready.  Many  think  that  seeds  improve  with  age.  I 
have  no  doubt  that  time  discriminates  between  the  good  and  the 
bad  ;  and  when  at  last  I  shall  plant,  I  shall  be  less  likely  to  be 
disappointed.  But  I  would  say  to  my  fellows,  once  for  all,  As 
long  as  possible  live  free  and  uncommitted.  It  makes  but  little 
difference  whether  you  are  committed  to  a  farm  or  the  county 
jail. 

Old  Cato,  Avhose  De  Re  Riisticd  is  my  Cultivator,  says,  and 
the  only  translation  I  have  seen  makes  sheer  nonsense  of  the 
passage,  "  When  you  think  of  getting  a  farm,  turn  it  thus  in  your 
mind,  not  to  buy  greedily ;  nor  spare  your  pains  to  look  at  it, 
and  do  not  think  it  enough  to  go  round  it  once.  The  oftener 
you  go  there  the  more  it  will  please  you,  if  it  is  good."  I  think 
I  shall  not  buy  greedily,  but  go  round  and  round  it  as  long  as 
I  live,  and  be  buried  in  it  first,  that  it  may  please  me  the  more 
at  last. 

The  present  was  my  next  experiment  of  this  kind,  which  I 
purpose  to  describe  more  at  length,  for  convenience,  putting 


HENRY  DAVID    THOREAU  373 

the  experience  of  two  years  into  one.     As  I  have  said,  I  do  not', 
propose  to  write  an  ode  to  dejection,  but  to  brag  as  lustily  as 
chanticleer  in  the  morning,  standing  on  his  roost,  if  only  to  wake 
my  neighbors  up. 

When  first  I  took  up  my  abode  in  the  woods,  that  is,  began  to 
spend  my  nights  as  well  as  days  there,  which,  by  accident,  was 
on  Independence  day,  or  the  fourth  of  July,  1845,  my  house  was 
not  finished  for  winter,  but  was  merely  a  defence  against  the 
rain,  without  plastering  or  chimney,  the  walls  being  of  rough 
weather-stained  boards,  with  wide  chinks,  which  made  it  cool 
at  night.  The  upright  white  hewn  studs  and  freshly  planed 
door  and  window  casings  gave  it  a  clean  and  aity  look,  espe- 
cially in  the  morning,  when  its  timbers  were  saturated  with  dew, 
so  that  I  fancied  that  by  noon  some  sweet  gum  would  exude 
from  them.  To  my  imagination  it  retained  throughout  the  day 
more  or  less  of  this  auroral  character,  reminding  me  of  a  certain 
house  on  a  mountain  which  I  had  visited  a  year  before.  This 
was  an  airy  and  unplastered  cabin,  fit  to  entertain  a  travelling 
god,  and  where  a  goddess  might  trail  her  garments.  The  winds 
which  passed  over  my  dwelling  were  such  as  sweep  over  the 
ridges  of  mountains,  bearing  the  broken  strains,  or  celestial 
parts  only,  of  terrestrial  music.  The  morning  wind  forever 
blows,  the  poem  of  creation  is  uninterrupted  ;  but  few  are  the 
ears  that  hear  it.  Olympus  is  but  the  outside  of  the  earth 
everywhere. 

The  only  house  I  had  been  the  owner  of  before,  if  I  except  a 
boat,  was  a  tent,  which  I  used  occasionally  when  making  excur- 
sions in  the  summer,  and  this  is  still  rolled  up  in  my  garret ; 
but  the  boat,  after  passing  from  hand  to  hand,  has  gone  down 
the  stream  of  time.  With  this  more  substantial  shelter  about 
me,  I  had  made  some  progress  toward  settling  in  the  world. 
This  frame,  so  slightly  clad,  was  a  sort  of  crystallization  around 
me,  and  reacted  on  the  builder.  It  was  suggestive  somewhat  as 
a  picture  in  outlines.  I  did  not  need  to  go  out  doors  to  take 
the  air,  for  the  atmosphere  within  had  lost  none  of  its  freshness. 
It  was  not  so  much  within  doors  as  behind  a  door  where  I  sat, 
even  in  the  rainiest  weather.  The  Harivansa  says,  "  An  abode 
without  birds  is  like  a  meat  without  seasoning."     Such  was  not 


374         WHERE  I  LIVED,  AND    WHAT  I  LIVED  FOR 

my  abode,  for  I  found  myself  suddenly  neighbor  to  the  birds ; 
not  by  having  imprisoned  one,  but  having  caged  myself  near 
them.  I  was  not  only  nearer  to  some  of  those  which  commonly 
frequent  the  garden  and  the  orchard,  but  to  those  wilder  and 
more  thrilling  songsters  of  the  forest  which  never,  or  rarely, 
serenade  a  villager,  —  the  wood-thrush,  the  veery,  the  scarlet 
tanager,  the  field-sparrow,  the  whippoorwill,  and  many  others, 

I  was  seated  by  the  shore  of  a  small  pond,  about  a  mile  and 
a  half  south  of  the  village  of  Concord  and  somewhat  higher  than 
it,  in  the  midst  of  an  extensive  wood  between  that  town  and  Lin- 
coln, and  about  two  miles  south  of  that  our  only  field  known  to 
fame,  Concord  Battle  Ground ;  but  I  was  so  low  in  the  woods 
that  the  opposite  shore,  half  a  mile  off,  like  the  rest,  covered 
with  wood,  was  my  most  distant  horizon.  For  the  first  week, 
whenever  I  looked  out  on  the  pond  it  impressed  me  like  a  tarn 
high  up  on  the  side  of  a  mountain,  its  bottom  far  above  the  sur- 
face of  other  lakes,  and,  as  the  sun  arose,  I  saw  it  throwing  off 
its  nightly  clothing  of  mist,  and  here  and  there,  by  degrees,  its 
soft  ripples  or  its  smooth  reflecting  surface  was  revealed,  while 
the  mists,  like  ghosts,  were  stealthily  withdrawing  in  every  direc- 
tion into  the  woods,  as  at  the  breaking  up  of  some  nocturnal  con- 
venticle. The  very  dew  seemed  to  hang  upon  the  trees  later 
into  the  day  than  usual,  as  on  the  sides  of  mountains. 

This  small  lake  was  of  most  value  as  a  neighbor  in  the  inter- 
vals of  a  gentle  rain  storm  in  August,  when,  both  air  and  water 
being  perfectly  still,  but  the  sky  overcast,  mid-afternoon  had  all 
the  serenity  of  evening,  and  the  wood-thrush  sang  around,  and 
was  heard  from  shore  to  shore.  A  lake  like  this  is  never  smoother 
than  at  such  a  time  ;  and  the  clear  portion  of  the  air  above  it 
being  shallow  and  darkened  by  clouds,  the  water,  full  of  light 
and  reflections,  becomes  a  lower  heaven  itself  so  much  the  moj"e 
important.  From  a  hill  top  near  by,  where  the  wood  had  been 
recently  cut  off,  there  was  a  pleasing  vista  southward  across  the 
pond,  through  a  wide  indentation  in  the  hills  which  form  the 
shore  there,  where  their  opposite  sides  sloping  toward  each  other 
suggested  a  stream  flowing  out  in  that  direction  through  a  wooded 
valley,  but  stream  there  was  none.  That  way  I  looked  between 
and  over  the  near  green  hills  to  some  distant  and  higher  ones  in 


HENR  Y  DA  VI D    THOREA  U  375 

the  horizon,  tinged  with  bkie.  Indeed,  by  standing  on  tiptoe 
I  could  catch  a  ghmpse  of  some  of  the  peaks  of  the  still  bluer 
and  more  distant  mountain  ranges  in  the  north-west,  those  true- 
blue  coins  from  heaven's  own  mint,  and  also  of  some  portion  of 
the  village.  But  in  other  directions,  even  from  this  point,  I  could 
not  see  over  or  beyond  the  woods  which  surrounded  me.  It  is 
well  to  have  some  water  in  your  neighborhood,  to  give  buoyancy 
to  and  float  the  earth.  One  value  even  of  the  smallest  well  is, 
that  when  you  look  into  it  you  see  that  earth  is  not  continent 
but  insular.  This  is  as  important  as  that  it  keeps  butter  cool. 
When  I  looked  across  the  pond  from  this  peak  toward  the  Sud- 
bury meadows,  which  in  time  of  flood  I  distinguished  elevated 
perhaps  by  a  mirage  in  their  seething  valley,  like  a  coin  in  a 
basin,  all  the  earth  beyond  the  pond  appeared  like  a  thin  crust 
insulated  and  floated  even  by  this  small  sheet  of  intervening 
water,  and  I  was  reminded  that  this  on  which  I  dwelt  was  but 
dry  land. 

Though  the  view  from  my  door  was  still  more  contracted,  I 
did  not  feel  crowded  or  confined  in  the  least.  There  was  pas- 
ture enough  for  my  imagination.  The  low  shrub-oak  plateau  to 
which  the  opposite  shore  arose,  stretched  away  toward  the  prairies 
of  the  West  and  the  steppes  of  Tartary,  affording  ample  room 
for  all  the  roving  families  of  men.  "  There  are  none  happy  in 
the  world  but  beings  who  enjoy  freely  a  vast  horizon,"  —  said 
Damodara,  when  his  herds  required  new  and  larger  pastures. 

Both  place  and  time  were  changed,  and  I  dwelt  nearer  to  those 
parts  of  the  universe  and  to  those  eras  in  history  which  had 
most  attracted  me.  Where  I  lived  was  as  far  off  as  many  a 
region  viewed  nightly  by  astronomers.  We  are  wont  to  imagine 
rare  and  delectable  places  in  some  remote  and  more  celestial 
corner  of  the  system,  behind  the  constellation  of  Cassiopeia's 
Chair,  far  from  noise  and  disturbance.  I  discovered  that  my 
house  actually  had  its  site  in  such  a  withdrawn,  but  forever  new 
and  unprofaned,  part  of  the  universe.  If  it  were  worth  the  while 
to  settle  in  those  parts  near  to  the  Pleiades  or  the  Hyades,  to 
Aldebaran  or  Altair,  then  I  was  really  there,  or  at  an  equal  re- 
moteness from  the  life  which  I  had  left  behind,  dwindled  and 
twinkling  with  as  fine  a  ray  to  my  nearest  neighbor,  and  to  be 


376         WHERE  I  LIVED,  AND    WHAT  I  LIVED  FOR 

seen  only  in  moonless  nights  by  him.     Such  was  that  part  of 
creation  where  I  had  squatted  — 

"  There  was  a  shepherd  that  did  live, 
And  held  his  thoughts  as  high 
As  were  the  mounts  whereon  his  flocks 
Did  hourly  feed  him  by." 

What  should  we  think  of  the  shepherd's  life  if  his  flocks  always 
wandered  to  higher  pastures  than  his  thoughts  ? 

Every  morning  was  a  cheerful  invitation  to  make  my  life  of 
equal  simplicity,  and  I  may  say  innocence,  with  Nature  herself. 
I  have  been  as  sincere  a  worshipper  of  Aurora  as  the  Greeks. 
I  got  up  early  and  bathed  in  the  pond  ;  that  was  a  religious 
exercise,  and  one  of  the  best  things  which  I  did.  They  say 
that  characters  were  engraven  on  the  bathing  tub  of  king 
Tching-thang  to  this  effect:  "Renew  thyself  completely  each 
day ;  do  it  again,  and  again,  and  forever  again."  I  can  under- 
stand that.  Morning  brings  back  the  heroic  ages.  I  was  as 
much  affected  by  the  faint  hum  of  a  mosqiiito  making  its  invis- 
ible and  unimaginable  tour  through  my  apartment  at  earliest 
dawn,  when  I  was  sitting  with  door  and  windows  open,  as  I 
could  be  by  any  trumpet  that  ever  sang  of  fame.  It  was 
Homer's  requiem  ;  itself  an  Iliad  and  Odyssey  in  the  air,  sing- 
ing its  own  wrath  and  wanderings.  There  was  something  cos- 
mical  about  it ;  a  standing  advertisement,  till  forbidden,  of  the 
everlasting  vigor  and  fertility  of  the  world.  The  morning,  which 
is  the  most  memorable  season  of  the  day,  is  the  awakening  hour. 
Then  there  is  least  somnolence  in  us ;  and  for  an  hour,  at  least, 
some  part  of  us  awakes  which  slumbers  all  the  rest  of  the  day 
and  night.  Little  is  to  be  expected  of  that  day,  if  it  can  be 
called  a  day,  to  which  we  are  not  awakened  by  our  Geiyus,  but 
by  the  mechanical  nudgings  of  some  servitor,  are  not  awakened 
by  our  own  newly-acquired  force  and  aspirations  from  within, 
accompanied  by  the  undulations  of  celestial  music,  instead  of 
factory  bells,  and  a  fragrance  filling  the  air  —  to  a  higher  life 
than  we  fell  asleep  from ;  and  thus  the  darkness  bear  its  fruit, 
and  prove  itself  to  be  good,  no  less  than  the  light.  '  That  man 
who  does  not  believe  that  each  day  contains  an  earlier,  more 


HENRY  DAVID    THOREAU  377 

sacred,  and  auroral  hour  than  he  has  yet  profaned,  has  despaired 
of  life,  and  is  pursuing  a  descending  and  darkening  way.  After 
a  partial  cessation  of  his  sensuous  life,  the  soul  of  man,  or  its 
organs  rather,  are  reinvigorated  each  day,  and  his  Genius  tries 
again  what  noble  life  it  can  make.  All  memorable  events,  I 
should  say,  transpire  in  morning  time  and  in  a  morning  atmos- 
phere. The  Vedas  say,  "  All  intelligences  awake  with  the 
morning."  Poetry  and  art,  and  the  fairest  and  most  memorable 
of  the  actions  of  men,  date  from  such  an  hour.  All  poets  and 
heroes,  like  Memnon,  are  the  children  of  Aurora,  and  emit  their 
music  at  sunrise.  To  him  whose  elastic  and  vigorous  thought 
keeps  pace  with  the  sun,  the  day  is  a  perpetual  morning.  It 
matters  not  what  the  clocks  say  or  the  attitudes  and  labors  of 
men.  Morning  is  when  I  am  awake  and  there  is  a  dawn  in  me. 
Moral  reform  is  the  effort  to  throw  off  sleep.  Why  is  it  that 
men  give  so  poor  an  account  of  their  day  if  they  have  not  been 
slumbering  ?  They  are  not  such  poor  calculators.  If  they  had 
not  been  overcome  with  drowsiness  they  would  have  performed 
something.  The  millions  are  awake  enough  for  physical  labor ; 
but  only  one  in  a  million  is  awake  enough  for  effective  intellectual 
exertion,  only  one  in  a  hundred  millions  to  a  poetic  or  divine  life. 
To  be  awake  is  to  be  alive.  I  have  never  yet  met  a  man  who 
was  quite  awake.     How  could  I  have  looked  him  in  the  face  ? 

We  must  learn  to  reawaken  and  keep  ourselves  awake,  not 
by  mechanical  aids,  but  by  an  infinite  expectation  of  the  dawn, 
which  does  not  forsake  us  in  our  soundest  sleep.  I  know  of  no 
more  encouraging  fact  than  the  unquestionable  ability  of  man  to 
elevate  his  life  by  a  conscious  endeavor.  It  is  something  to 
be  able  to  paint  a  particular  picture,  or  to  carve  a  statue,  and 
so  to  make  a  few  objects  beautiful  ;  but  it  is  far  more  glorious  to 
carve  and  paint  the  very  atmosphere  and  medium  through  which 
we  look,  which  morally  we  can  do.  To  effect  the  quality  of  the 
day,  that  is  the  highest  of  arts.  Every  man  is  tasked  to  make 
his  life,  even  in  its  details,  worthy  of  the  contemplation  of  his 
most  elevated  and  critical  hour.  If  we  refused,  or  rather  used 
up,  such  paltry  information  as  we  get,  the  oracles  would  dis- 
tinctly inform  us  how  this  might  be  done. 

I  went  to  the  woods  because  I  wished  to  live  deliberately,  to 


378  WHERE  I  LIVED,   AND    WHAT  I  LIVED  FOR 

front  only  the  essential  facts  of  life,  and  see  if  I  could  learn 
what  it  had  to  teach,  and  not,  when  I  came  to  die,  discover  that 
I  had  not  lived.  I  did  not  wish  to  Uve  what  was  not  life,  living 
is  so  dear  ;  nor  did  I  wish  to  practise  resignation,  unless  it  was 
quite  necessary.  I  wanted  to  live  deep  and  suck  out  all  the 
marrow  of  life,  to  live  so  sturdily  and  Spartan-like  as  to  put  to 
rout  all  that  was  not  life,  and  to  cut  a  broad  swath  and  shave 
close,  to  drive  life  into  a  corner,  and  reduce  it  to  its  lowest 
terms,  and,  if  it  proved  to  be  mean,  why  then  to  get  the  whole 
and  genuine  meanness  of  it,  and  publish  its  meanness  to  the 
world  ;  or  if  it  were  sublime,  to  know  it  by  experience,  and  be 
able  to  give  a  true  account  of  it  in  my  next  excursion.  For 
most  men,  it  appears  to  me,  are  in  a  strange  uncertainty  about 
it,  whether  it  is  of  the  devil  or  of  God,  and  have  so7?2cw/iat 
hastily  concluded  that  it  is  the  chief  end  of  man  here  to  "glorify 
God  and  enjoy  him  forever." 

Still  we  live  meanly,  like  ants  ;  though  the  fable  tells  us  that 
we  were  long  ago  changed  into  men  ;  like  pygmies  we  fight  with 
cranes,  it  is  error  upon  error,  and  clout  upon  clout,  and  our  best 
virtue  has  for  its  occasion  a  superfluous  and  evitable  wretched- 
ness. Our  life  is  frittered  away  by  detail.  'An  honest  man  has 
hardly  need  to  count  more  than  his  ten  fingers,  or  in  extreme 
cases  he  may  add  his  ten  toes,  and  lump  the  rest.  Simplicity, 
simplicity,  simplicity !  I  say,  let  your  affairs  be  as  two  or  three, 
and  not  a  hundred  or  a  thousand  ;  instead  of  a  million  count 
half  a  dozen,  and  keep  your  accounts  on  your  thumb  nail.  In 
the.  midst  of  this  chopping  sea  of  civilized  life,  such  are  the 
clouds  and  storms  and  quicksands  and  thousand-and-one  items 
to  be  allowed  for,  that  a  man  has  to  live,  if  he  would  not  founder 
and  go  to  the  bottom  and  not  make  his  port  at  all,  by  dead 
reckoning,  and  he  must  be  a  great  calculator  indeed  who  suc- 
ceeds. Simplify,  simplify.  Instead  of  three  meals  a  day,  if  it 
be  necessary  eat  but  one ;  instead  of  a  hundred  dishes,  five ; 
and  reduce  other  things  in  proportion.  Our  life  is  like  a  Ger- 
man Confederacy,  made  up  of  petty  states,  with  its  boundary 
forever  fluctuating,  so  that  even  a  German  cannot 'tell  you  how 
it  is  bounded  at  any  moment.  The  nation  itself,  with  all  its  so- 
called  internal  improvements,  which,  by  the  way,  are  all  external 


HENRY  DAVID    THOREAU  379 

and  superficial,  is  just  such  an  unwieldy  and  overgrown  estab- 
lishment, cluttered  with  furniture  and  tripped  up  by  its  own 
traps,  ruined  by  luxury  and  heedless  expense,  by  want  of  calcu- 
lation and  a  worthy  aim,  as  the  million  households  in  the  land; 
and  the  only  cure  for  it  as  for  them  is  in  a  rigid  economy,  a 
stern  and  more  than  Spartan  simplicity  of  life  and  elevation  of 
purpose.  It  lives  too  fast.  Men  think  that  it  is  essential  that 
the  Nation  have  commerce,  and  export  ice,  and  talk  through  a 
telegraph,  and  ride  thirty  miles  an  hour,  without  a  doubt, 
whether  they  do  or  not ;  but  whether  we  should  live  like  baboons 
or  like  men,  is  a  little  uncertain.  If  we  do  not  get  out  sleepers, 
and  forge  rails,  and  devote  days  and  nights  to  the  work,  but  go 
tinkering  upon  our  lives  to  improve  them^  who  will  build  rail- 
roads ?  And  if  railroads  are  not  built,  how  shall  we  get  to 
heaven  in  season  ?  But  if  we  stay  at  home  and  mind  our  busi- 
ness, who  will  want  railroads  ?  We  do  not  ride  on  the  railroad  ; 
it  rides  upon  us.  Did  you  ever  think  what  those  sleepers  are 
that  underlie  the  railroad  ?  Each  one  is  a  man,  an  Irishman,  or 
a  Yankee  man.  The  rails  are  laid  on  them,  and  they  are  cov- 
ered with  sand,  and  the  cars  run  smoothly  over  them.  They 
are  sound  sleepers,  I  assure  you.  And  every  few  years  a  new 
lot  is  laid  down  and  run  over ;  so  that,  if  some  have  the  pleasure 
of  riding  on  a  rail,  others  have  the  misfortune  to  be  ridden  upon. 
And  when  they  run  over  a  man  that  is  walking  in  his  sleep,  a 
supernumerary  sleeper  in  the  wrong  position,  and  wake  him  up, 
they  suddenly  stop  the  cars,  and  make  a  hue  and  cry  about  it, 
as  if  this  were  an  exception.  I  am  glad  to  know  that  it  takes  a 
gang  of  men  for  every  five  miles  to  keep  the  sleepers  down  and 
level  in  their  beds  as  it  is,  for  this  is  a  sign  that  they  may 
sometimes  get  up  again. 

Why  should  we  live  with  such  hurry  and  waste  of  Hfe  ?  We 
are  determined  to  be  starved  before  we  are  hungry.  Men  say 
that  a  stitch  in  time  saves  nine,  and  so  they  take  a  thousand 
stitches  to-day  to  save  nine  to-morrow.  As  for  work,  we  haven't 
any  of  any  consequence.  We  have  the  St.  Vitus'  dance,  and 
cannot  possibly  keep  our  heads  still.  If  I  should  only  give  a 
few  pulls  at  the  parish  bell-rope,  as  for  a  fire,  that  is,  without 
setting  the  bell,  there  is  hardly  a  man  on  his  farm  in  the  out- 


38o  WHERE  I  LIVED,   AND    WHAT  I  LIVED  FOR 

skirts  of  Concord,  notwithstanding  that  press  of  engagements 
which  was  his  excuse  so  many  times  this  morning,  nor  a  boy, 
nor  a  woman,  I  might  also  say,  but  would  forsake  all  and  follow 
that  sound,  not  mainly  to  save  property  from  the  flames,  but,  if 
we  will  confess  the  truth,  much  more  to  see  it  burn,  since  burn 
it  must,  and  we,  be  it  known,  did  not  set  it  on  fire,  —  or  to  see 
it  put  out,-  and  have  a  hand  in  it,  if  that  is  done  as  handsomely ; 
yes,  even  if  it  were  the  parish  church  itself.  Hardly  a  man 
takes  a  half  hour's  nap  after  dinner,  but  when  he  wakes  he  holds 
up  his  head  and  asks,  "  What's  the  news  ?  "  as  if  the  rest  of 
mankind  had  stood  his  sentinels.  Some  give  directions  to  be 
waked  every  half  hour,  doubtless  for  no  other  purpose  ;  and  then 
to  pay  for  it,  they  tell  what  they  have  dreamed.  After  a  night's 
sleep  the  news  is  as  indispensable  as  the  breakfast.  "  Pray  tell 
me  anything  new  that  has  happened  to  a  man  any  where  on  this 
globe,"  —  and  he  reads  it  over  his  coffee  and  rolls,  that  a  man 
has  had  his  eyes  gouged  out  this  morning  on  the  Wachito  River  ; 
never  dreaming  the  while  that  he  lives  in  the  dark  unfathomed 
mammoth  cave  of  this  world,  and*  has  but  the  rudiment  of  an 
eye  himself. 

For  my  part,  I  could  easily  do  without  the  post-office.  I  think 
that  there  are  very  few  important  communications  made  through 
it.  To  speak  critically,  I  never  received  more  than  one  or  two 
letters  in  my  life  —  I  wrote  this  some  years  ago  —  that  were  worth 
the  postage.  The  penny-post  is,  commonly,  an  institution  through 
which  you  seriously  offer  a  man  that  penny  for  his  thoughts  which 
is  so  often  safely  offered  in  jest.  And  I  am  sure  that  I  never 
read  any  memorable  news  in  a  newspaper.  If  we  read  of  one 
man  robbed,  or  murdered,  or  killed  by  accident,  or  one  house 
burned,  or  one  vessel  wrecked,  or  one  steamboat  blown  up,  or 
one  cow  run  over  on  the  Western  Railroad,  or  one  mad  dog 
killed,  or  one  lot  of  grasshoppers  in  the  winter,  — we  never  need 
read  of  another.  One  is  enough.  If  you  are  acquainted  with 
the  principle,  what  do  you  care  for  a  myriad  instances  and  appli- 
cations ?  To  a  philosopher  all  news,  as  it  is  called,  is  gossip, 
and  they  who  edit  and  read  it  are  old  women  over  their  tea. 
Yet  not  a  few  are  greedy  after  this  gossip.  There  was  such  a 
rush,  as  I  hear,  the  other  day  at  one  of  the  offices  to  learn  the 


HENRY  DAVID    THOREAU  38 1 

foreign  news  by  the  last  arrival,  that  several  large  squares  of 
plate  glass  belonging  to  the  establishment  were  broken  by  the 
pressure,  —  news  which  I  seriously  think  a  ready  wit  might 
write  a  twelvemonth  or  twelve  years  beforehand  with  sufficient 
accuracy.  As  for  Spain,  for  instance,  if  you  know  how  to  throw 
in  Don  Carlos  and  the  Infanta,  and  Don  Pedro  and  Seville  and 
Granada,  from  time  to  time  in  the  right  proportions,  —  they  may 
have  changed  the  names  a  little  since  I  saw  the  papers,  —  and 
serve  up  a  bull-fight  when  other  entertainments  fail,  it  will  be 
true  to  the  letter,  and  give  us  as  good  an  idea  of  the  exact  state 
or  ruin  of  things  in  Spain  as  the  most  succinct  and  lucid  reports 
under  this  head  in  the  newspapers  :  and  as  for  England,  almost 
the  last  significant  scrap  of  news  from  that  quarter  was  the 
revolution  of  1649;  and  if  you  have  learned  the  history  of  her 
crops  for  an  average  year,  you  never  need  attend  to  that  thing 
again,  unless  your  speculations  are  of  a  merely  pecuniary  char- 
acter. If  one  may  judge  who  rarely  looks  into  the  newspapers, 
nothing  new  does  ever  happen  in  foreign  parts,  a  French  revo- 
lution not  excepted. 

What  news  !  how  much  more  important  to  know  what  that  is 
which  was  never  old  !  "  Kieou-he-yu  (great  dignitary  of  the 
state  of  Wei)  sent  a  man  to  Khoung-tseu  to  know  his  news. 
Khoung-tseu  caused  the  messenger  to  be  seated  near  him,  and 
questioned  him  in  these  terms :  What  is  your  master  doing  ? 
The  messenger  answered  with  respect :  My  master  desires  to 
diminish  the  number  of  his  faults,  but  he  cannot  come  to  the 
end  of  them.  The  messenger  being  gone,  the  philosopher  re- 
marked :  What  a  worthy  messenger  !  What  a  worthy  messen- 
ger !  "  The  preacher,  instead  of  vexing  the  ears  of  drowsy 
farmers  on  their  day  of  rest  at  the  end  of  the  week,  —  for  Sun- 
day is  the  fit  conclusion  of  an  ill-spent  week,  and  not  the  fresh 
and  brave  beginning  of  a  new  one,  — with  this  one  other  draggle- 
tail  of  a  sermon,  should  shout  with  thundering  voice,  —  "  Pause  ! 
Avast !     Why  so  seeming  fast,  but  deadly  slow  ?  " 

Shams  and  delusions  are  esteemed  for  soundest  truths,  while 
reality  is  fabulous.  If  men  would  steadily  observe  realities  only, 
and  not  allow  themselves  to  be  deluded,  life,  to  compare  it  with 
such  things  as  we  know,  would  be  like  a  fairy  tale  and  the  Arabian 


382         WHERE  I  LIVED,  AND    WHAT  I  LIVED  FOR 

Nights'  Entertainments.  If  we  respected  only  what  is  inevitable 
and  has  a  right  to  be,  music  and  poetry  would  resound  along 
the  streets.  When  we  are  unhurried  and  wise,  we  perceive  that 
only  great  and  worthy  things  have  any  permanent  and  absolute 
existence,  —  that  petty  fears  and  petty  pleasures  are  but  the 
shadow  of  the  reality.  This  is  always  exhilarating  and  sublime. 
By  closing  the  eyes  and  slumbering,  and  consenting  to  be  de- 
ceived by  shows,  men  establish  and  confirm  their  daily  life  of 
routine  and  habit  every  where,  which  still  is  built  on  purely 
illusory  foundations.  Children,  who  play  life,  discern  its  true 
law  and  relations  more  clearly  than  men,  who  fail  to  live  it 
Avorthily,  but  who  think  that  they  are  wiser  by  experience,  that 
is,  by  failure.  I  have  read  in  a  Hindoo  book,  that  "  there  was 
a  king's  son,  who,  being  expelled  in  infancy  from  his  native  city, 
was  brought  up  by  a  forester,  and  growing  up  to  maturity  in 
that  state,  imagined  himself  to  belong  to  the  barbarous  race  with 
which  he  lived.  One  of  his  father's  ministers  having  discovered 
him,  revealed  to  him  what  he  was,  and  the  misconception  of  his 
character  was  removed,  and  he  knew  himself  to  be  a  prince. 
So  soul,"  continues  the  Hindoo  ■philosopher,  "  from  the  circum- 
stances in  which  it  is  placed,  mistakes  its  own  character,  until 
the  truth  is  revealed  to  it  by  some  holy  teacher,  and  then  it 
knows  itself  to  be  Bra/inie.''  I  perceive  that  we  inhabitants  of 
New  England  live  this  mean  life  that  we  do  because  our  vision 
does  not  penetrate  the  surface  of  things.  We  think  that  that  is 
which  appears  to  be.  If  a  man  should  walk  through  this  town 
and  see  only  the  reality,  where,  think  you,  would  the  "  Mill-dam  " 
go  to  ?  If  he  should  give  us  an  account  of  the  realities  he  beheld 
there,  we  should  not  recognize  the  place  in  his  description.  Look 
at  a  meeting-house,  or  a  court-house,  or  a  jail,  or  a  shop,  or  a 
dwelling-house,  and  say  what  that  thin^  really  is  before  a  true 
gaze,  and  they  would  all  go  to  pieces  in  your  account  of  them. 
Men  esteem  truth  remote,  in  the  outskirts  of  the  system,  behind 
the  farthest  star,  before  Adam  and  after  the  last  man.  In  eter- 
nity there  is  indeed  something  true  and  sublime.  But  all  these 
times  and  places  and  occasions  are  now  and  here.  God  himself 
culminates  in  the  present  moment,  and  will  never  be  more  divine 
ixi  the  lapse  of  all  the  ages.     And  we  are  enabled  to  apprehend 


HENRY  DAVID    THOREAU  *         383- 

at  all  what  is  sublime  and  noble  only  by  the  perpetual  instilling 
and  drenching  of  the  reality  that  surrounds  us.  The  universe 
constantly  and  obediently  answers  to  our  conceptions ;  whether 
we  travel  fast  or  slow,  the  track  is  laid  for  us.  Let  us  spend  our 
lives  in  conceiving  then.  The  poet  or  the  artist  never  yet  had 
so  fair  and  noble  a  design  but  some  of  his  posterity  at  least  could 
accomplish  it. 

Let  us  spend  one  day  as  deliberately  as  Nature,  and  not  be 
thrown  off  the  track  by  every  nutshell  and  mosquito's  wing  that 
falls  on  the  rails.  Let  us  rise  early  and  fast,  or  break  fast,  gently 
and  without  perturbation  ;  let  company  come  and  let  company 
go,  let  the  bells  ring  and  the  children  cry,  —  determine  to  make 
a  day  of  it.  Why  should  we  knock  under  and  go  with  the  stream? 
Let  us  not  be  upset  and  overwhelmed  in  that  terrible  rapid  and 
whirlpool  called  a  dinner,  situated  in  the  meridian  shallows. 
Weather  this  danger  and  you  are  safe,  for  the  rest  of  the  way 
is  down  hill.  With  unrelaxed  nerves,  with  morning  vigor,  sail 
by  it,  looking  another  way,  tied  to  the  mast  like  Ulysses.  If  the 
engine  whistles,  let  it  whistle  till  it  is  hoarse  for  its  pains.  If 
the  bell  rings,  why  should  we  run  ?  We  will  consider  what  kind 
of  music  they  are  like.  Let  us  settle  ourselves,  and  work  and 
wedge  our  feet  downward  through  the  mud  and  slush  of  opinion, 
and  prejudice,  and  tradition,  and  delusion,  and  appearance,  that 
alluvion  which  covers  the  globe,  through  Paris  and  London, 
through  New  York  and  Boston  and  Concord,  through  church  and 
state,  through  poetry  and  philosophy  and  religion,  till  we  come 
to  a  hard  bottom  and  rocks  in  place,  which  we  can  call  reality, 
and  say,  This  is,  and  no  mistake  ;  and  then  begin,  having  2i  point 
d''appui,  below  freshet  and  frost  and  fire,  a  place  where  you  might 
found  a  wall  or  a  state,  or  set  a  lamp-post  safely,  or  perhaps  a 
gauge,  not  a  Nilometer,  but  a  Realometer,  that  future  ages  might 
know  how  deep  a  freshet  of  shams  and  appearances  had  gathered 
from  time  to  time.  If  you  stand  right  fronting  and  face  to  face 
to  a  fact,  you  will  see  the  sun  glimmer  on  both  its  surfaces,  as  if 
it  were  a  cimeter,  and  feel  its  sweet  edge  dividing  you  through 
the  heart  and  marrow,  and  so  you  will  happily  conclude  your 
mortal  career.  Be  it  life  or  death,  we  crave  only  reality.  If  we 
are  really  dying,  let  us  hear  the  rattle  in  our  throats  and  feel 


384  THE    GETTYSBURG  ADDRESS 

cold  in  the  extremities  ;    if  we  are   alive,  let  us  go  about  our 
business. 

Time  is  but  the  stream  I  go  a-fishing  in.  I  drink  at  it ;  but 
while  I  drink  I  see  the  sandy  bottom  and  detect  how  shallow  it 
is.  Its  thin  current  slides  away,  but  eternity  remains.  I  would 
drink  deeper  ;  fish  in  the  sky,  whose  bottom  is  pebbly  with  stars. 
I  cannot  count  one.  I  know  not  the  first  letter  of  the  alphabet. 
I  have  always  been  regretting  that  I  was  not  as  wise  as  the  day  I 
was  born.  The  intellect  is  a  cleaver;  it  discerns  and  rifts  its 
way  into  the  secret  of  things.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  any  more 
busy  with  my  hands  than  is  necessary.  My  head  is  hands  and 
feet.  I  feel  all  my  best  faculties  concentrated  in  it.  My  instinct 
tells  me  that  my  head  is  an  organ  for  burrowing,  as  some  crea- 
tures use  their  snout  and  fore-paws,  and  with  it  I  would  mine 
and  burrow  my  way  through  these  hills.  I  think  that  the  richest 
vein  is  somewhere  hereabouts ;  so  by  the  divining  rod  and  thin 
rising  vapors  I  judge;  and  here  I  will  begin  to  mine. 


THE   GETTYSBURG   ADDRESS 

ABRAHAM   LINCOLN 

[The  Address  delivered  at  the  dedication  of  the  Gettysburg  National  Ceme- 
tery, Nov.  19,  1863.] 

Fourscore  and  seven  years  ago  our  fathers  brought  forth 
upon  this  continent  a  new  nation,  conceived  in  liberty,  and 
dedicated  to  the  proposition  that  all  men  are  created  equal. 

Now  we  are  engaged  in  a  great  civil  war,  testing  whether  that 
nation,  or  any  nation  so  conceived  and  so  dedicated,  can  long 
endure.  We  are  met  on  a  great  battle-field  of  that  war.  We 
have  come  to  dedicate  a  portion  of  that  field  as  a  final  resting- 
place  for  those  who  here  gave  their  lives  that  that  nation  might 
live.  It  is  altogether  fitting  and  proper  that  we  should  do 
this. 

But  in  a  larger  sense  we  cannot  dedicate  —  we  cannot  conse- 
crate —  we  cannot  hallow  —  this  ground.  The  brave  men,  living 
and  dead,  who  struggled  here,  have  consecrated  it,  far  above 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  385 

our  power  to  add  or  detract.  The  world  will  little  note,  nor 
long  remember,  what  we  say  here,  but  it  can  never  forget  what 
they  did  here.  It  is  for  us  the  living,  rather,  to  be  dedicated 
here  to  the  unfinished  work  which  they  who  fought  here  have 
thus  far  nobly  advanced.  It  is  rather  for  us  to  be  here  dedi- 
cated to  the  great  task  remaining  before  us  —  that  from  these 
honored  dead  we  take  increased  devotion  to  that  cause  for  which 
they  gave  the  last  full  measure  of  devotion  —  that  we  here  highly 
resolve  that  these  dead  shall  not  have  died  in  vain — that  this 
nation,  under  God,  shall  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom  —  and  that 
government  of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for  the  people,  shall 
not  perish  from  the  earth. 


SECOND    INAUGURAL  ADDRESS 

ABRAHAM   LINCOLN 
[Delivered  March  4,  1865.]    , 

Fellow-countrymen  :  —  At  this  second  appearing  to  take  the 
oath  of  the  Presidential  office,  there  is  less  occasion  for  an  ex- 
tended address  than  there  was  at  the  first.  Then  a  statement, 
somewhat  in  detail,  of  a  course  to  be  pursued,  seemed  fitting 
and  proper.  Now,  at  the  expiration  of  four  years,  during  which 
public  declarations  have  been  constantly  called  forth  on  every 
point  and  phase  of  the  great  contest  which  still  absorbs  the 
attention  and  engrosses  the  energies  of  the  nation,  little  that  is 
new  could  be  presented.  The  progress  of  our  arms,  upon  which 
all  else  chiefly  depends,  is  as  well  known  to  the  public  as  to 
myself ;  and  it  is,  I  trust,  reasonably  satisfactory  and  encourag- 
ing to  all.  With  high  hope  for  the  future,  no  prediction  in 
regard  to  it  is  ventured. 

On  the  occasion  corresponding  to  this  four  years  ago,  all 
thoughts  were  anxiously  directed  to  an  impending  civil  war. 
All  dreaded  it  —  all  sought  to  avert  it.  While  the  inaugural 
address  was  being  delivered  from  this  place,  devoted  altogether 
to  saving  the  Union  without  war,  insurgent  agents  were  in  the 
city  seeking  to  destroy  it  without  war  —  seeking  to  dissolve  the 

20 


3^6  SECOND  INAUGURAL  ADDRESS 

Union,  and  divide  effects,  by  negotiation.  Both  parties  depre- 
cated war ;  but  one  of  them  would  make  war  rather  than  let 
the  nation  survive  ;  and  the  other  would  accept  war  rather  than 
let  it  perish.     And  the  war  came. 

One-eighth  of  the  whole  population  were  colored  slaves,  not 
distributed  generally  over  the  Union,  but  localized  in  the  South- 
ern part  of  it.  These  slaves  constituted  a  peculiar  and  powerful 
interest.  All  knew  that  this  interest  was,  somehow,  the  cause 
of  the  war.  To  strengthen,  perpetuate,  and  extend  this  interest 
was  the  object  for  which  the  insurgents  would  rend  the  Union, 
even  by  war ;  while  the  Government  claimed  no  right  to  do 
more  than  to  restrict  the  territorial  enlargement  of  it.  Neither 
party  expected  for  the  war  the  magnitude  or  the  duration 
which  it  has  already  attained.  Neither  anticipated  that  the 
cause  of  the  conflict  might  cease  with,  or  even  before,  the 
conflict  itself  should  cease.  Each  looked  for  an  easier  tri- 
umph, and  a  result  less  fundamental  and  astounding.  Both 
read  the  same  Bible,  and  pray  to  the  same  God ;  and  each 
invokes  his  aid  against  the  other.  It  may  seem  strange  that 
any  men  should  dare  to  ask  a  just  God's  assistance  in  wringing 
their  bread  from  the  sweat  of  other  men's  faces  ;  but  let  us 
judge  not,  that  we  be  not  judged.  The  prayers  of  both  could 
not  be  answered  —  that  of  neither  has  been  answered  fully. 
The  Almighty  has  his  own  purposes.  "  Woe  unto  the  world 
because  of  offenses  !  for  it  must  needs  be  that  offenses  come  ; 
but  woe  to  that  man  by  whom  the  offense  cometh."  If  we  shall 
suppose  that  American  slavery  is  one  of  those  offenses  which,  in 
the  providence  of  God,  must  needs  come,  but  which,  having  con- 
tinued through  his  appointed  time,  he  now  wills  to  remove,  and 
that  he  gives  to  both  North  and  South  this  terrible  war,  as  the 
woe  due  to  those  by  whom  the  offense  came,  shall  we  discern 
therein  any  departure  from  those  divine  attributes  which  the 
believers  in  a  living  God  always  ascribe  to  him  ?  Fondly  do 
we  hope  —  fervently  do  we  pray  —  that  this  mighty  scourge  of 
war  may  speedily  pass  away.  Yet,  if  God  wills  that  it  shall 
continue  until  all  the  wealth  piled  by  the  bondman's  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  years  of  unrequited  toil  shall  be  sunk,  and  until 
every  drop  of  blood  drawn  with  the  lash  shall  be  paid  by  another 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  387 

• 
drawn  with  the  sword,  as  was  said  three  thousand  years  ago,  so 
still  it  must  be  said,  "  The  judgments  of  the  Lord  are  true  and 
righteous  altogether." 

With  malice  toward  none  ;  with  charity  for  all ;  with  firmness 
in  the  right,  as  God  gives  us  to  see  the  right,  let  us  strive  on  to 
finish  the  work  we  are  in  ;  to  bind  up  the  nation's  wounds  ;  to 
care  for  him  who  shall  have  borne  the  battle,  and  for  his  widow, 
and  his  orphan  —  to  do  all  which  may  achieve  and  cherish  a 
just  and  lasting  peace  among  ourselves,  and  with  all  nations. 


CIVIL    LIBERTY 

JOHN   STUART   MILL 
[The  introductory  chapter  to  the  treatise  On  Liberty,  1859.] 

The  subject  of  this  Essay  is  not  the  so-called  Liberty  of  the 
Will,  so  unfortunately  opposed  to  the  misnamed  doctrine  of 
Philosophical  Necessity  ;  but  Civil,  or  Social  Liberty  :  the  nature 
and  limits  of  the  power  which  can  be  legitimately  exercised  by 
society  over  the  individual.  A  question  seldom  stated,  and 
hardly  ever  discussed,  in  general  terms,  but  which  profoundly 
influences  the  practical  controversies  of  the  age  by  its  latent 
presence,  and  is  likely  soon  to  make  itself  recognized  as  the 
vital  question  of  the  future.  It  is  so  far  from  being  new,  that, 
in  a  certain  sense,  it  has  divided  mankind,  almost  from  the 
remotest  ages  ;  but  in  the  stage  of  progress  into  which  the  more 
civilized  portions  of  the  species  have  now  entered,  it  presents 
itself  under  new  conditions,  and  requires  a  different  and  more 
fundamental  treatment. 

The  struggle  between  Liberty  and  Authority  is  the  most  con- 
spicuous feature  in  the  portions  of  history  with  which  we  are 
earliest  familiar,  particularly  in  that  of  Greece,  Rome,  and  Eng- 
land. But  in  old  times  this  contest  was  between  subjects,  or 
some  classes  of  subjects,  and  the  Government.  By  liberty,  was 
meant  protection  against  the  tyranny  of  the  political  rulers. 
The  rulers  were  conceived  (except  in  some  of  the  popular  gov- 
ernments of  Greece)  as  in  a  necessarily  antagonistic  position  to 


388  CIVIL  LIBERTY 


• 


the  people  whom  they  ruled.  They  consisted  of  a  governing 
One,  or  a  governing  tribe  or  caste,  who  derived  their  authority 
from  inheritance  or  conquest,  who,  at  all  events,  did  not  hold  it 
at  the  pleasure  of  the  governed,  and  whose  supremacy  men  did 
not  venture,  perhaps  did  not  desire,  to  contest,  whatever  pre- 
cautions might  be  taken  against  its  oppressive  exercise.  Their 
power  was  regarded  as  necessary,  but  also  as  highly  dangerous  p 
as  a  weapon  which  they  would  attempt  to  use  against  their  sub- 
jects, no  less  than  against  external  enemies.  To  prevent  the 
weaker  members  of  the  community  from  being  preyed  upon  by 
innumerable  vultures,  it  was  needful  that  there  should  be  an 
animal  of  prey  stronger  than  the  rest,  commissioned  to  keep 
them  down.  But  as  the  king  of  the  vultures  would  be  no  less 
bent  upon  preying  on  the  flock  than  any  of  the  minor  harpies, 
it  was  indispensable  to  be  in  a  perpetual  attitude  of  defence 
against  his  beak  and  claws.  The  aim,  therefore,  of  patriots,  was 
to  set  limits  to  the  power  which  the  ruler  should  be  suffered  to 
exercise  over  the  community ;  and  this  limitation  was  what  they 
meant  by  liberty.  It  was  attempted  in  two  ways.  First,  by 
obtaining  a  recognition  of  certain  immunities,  called  political 
liberties  or  rights,  which  it  was  to  be  regarded  as  a  breach  of 
duty  in  the  ruler  to  infringe,  and  which,  if  he  did  infringe, 
specific  resistance,  or  general  rebellion,  was  held  to  be  justifi- 
able. A  second,  and  generally  a  later  expedient,  was  the  estab- 
lishment of  constitutional  checks,  by  which  the  consent  of  the 
community,  or  of  a  body  of  some  sort,  supposed  to  represent  its 
interests,  was  made  a  necessary  condition  to  some  of  the  more 
important  acts  of  the  governing  power.  To  the  first  of  these 
modes  of  limitation,  the  ruling  power,  in  most  European  coun- 
tries,  was  compelled,  more  or  less,  to  submit.  It  was  not  so 
with  the  second  ;  and,  to  attain  this,  or  when  already  in  some 
degree  possessed,  to  attain  it  more  completely,  became  every- 
where the  principal  object  of  the  lovers  of  liberty.  And  so  long 
as  mankind  were  content  to  combat  one  enemy  by  another,  and 
to  be  ruled  by  a  master,  on  condition  of  being  guaranteed  more 
or  less  efficaciously  against  his  tyranny,  they  did  not  carry  their 
aspirations  beyond  this  point. 

A  time,  however,  came,  in  the  progress  of  human  affairs,  when 


JOHN  STUART  MILL  389 

men  ceased  to  think  it  a  necessity  of  nature  that  their  governors 
should  be  an  independent  power,  opposed  in  interest  to  them- 
selves. It  appeared  to  them  much  better  that  the  various 
magistrates  of  the  State  should  be  their  tenants  or  delegates, 
revocable  at  their  pleasure.  In  that  way  alone,  it  seemed,  could 
they  have  complete  security  that  the  powers  of  government 
would  never  be  abused  to  their  disadvantage.  By  degrees  this 
new  demand  for  elective  and  temporary  rulers  became  the 
prominent  object  of  the  exertions  of  the  popular  party,  wherever 
any  such  party  existed  ;  and  superseded,  to  a  considerable  ex- 
tent, the  previous  efforts  to  limit  the  power  of  rulers.  As  the 
struggle  proceeded  for  making  the  ruling  power  emanate  from 
the  periodical  choice  of  the  ruled,  some  persons  began  to  think 
that  too  much  importance  had  been  attached  to  the  limitation 
of  the  power  itself.  That  (it  might  seem)  was  a  resource  against 
rulers  whose  interests  were  habitually  opposed  to  those  of  the 
people.  What  was  now  wanted  was,  that  the  rulers  should  be 
identified  with  the  people  ;  that  their  interest  and  will  should  be 
the  interest  and  will  of  the  nation.  The  nation  did  not  need  to 
be  protected  against  its  own  will.  There  was  no  fear  of  its 
tyrannizing  over  itself.  Let  the  rulers  be  effectually  responsible 
to  it,  promptly  removable  by  it,  and  it  could  afford  to  trust  them 
with  power  of  which  it  could  itself  dictate  the  use  to  be  made. 
Their  power  Was  but  the  nation's  own  power,  concentrated,  and 
in  a  form  convenient  for  exercise.  This  mode  of  thought,  or 
rather  perhaps  of  feeling,  was  common  among  the  last  genera- 
tion of  European  liberalism,  in  the  Continental  section  of  which 
it  still  apparently  predominates.  Those  who  admit  any  limit  to 
what  a  government  may  do,  except  in  the  case  of  such  govern- 
ments as  they  think  ought  not  to  exist,  stand  out  as  brilliant 
exceptions  among  the  political  thinkers  of  the  Continent.  A 
similar  tone  of  sentiment  might  by  this  time  have  been  preva- 
lent in  our  own  country,  if  the  circumstances  which  for  a  time 
encouraged  it  had  continued  unaltered. 

But,  in  political  and  philosophical  theories,  as  well  as  in  per- 
sons, success  discloses  faults  and  infirmities  which  failure  might 
have  concealed  from  observation.  The  notion,  that  the  people 
have  no  need  to  limit  their  power  over  themselves,  might  seem 


390  CIVIL  LIBERTY 

axiomatic,  when  popular  government  was  a  thing  only  dreamed 
about,  or  read  of  as  having  existed  at  some  distant  period  of  the 
past.  Neither  was  that  notion  necessarily  disturbed  by  such 
temporary  aberrations  as  those  of  the  French  Revolution,  the 
worst  of  which  were  the  work  of  an  usurping  few,  and  which,  in 
any  case,  belonged,  not  to  the  permanent  working  of  popular 
institutions,  but  to  a  sudden  and  convulsive  outbreak  against 
monarchical  and  aristocratic  despotism.  In  time,  however,  a 
democratic  republic  came  to  occupy  a  large  portion  of  the 
earth's  surface,  and  made  itself  felt  as  one  of  the  most  powerful 
members  of  the  community  of  nations  ;  and  elective  and  re- 
sponsible government  became  subject  to  the  observations  and 
criticisms  which  wait  upon  a  great  existing  fact.  It  was  now 
perceived  that  such  phrases  as  "  self-government,"  and  "  the 
power  of  the  people  over  themselves,"  do  not  express  the  true 
state  of  the  case.  The  "  people  "  who  exercise  the  power  are 
not  always  the  same  people  with  those  over  whom  it  is  exercised ; 
and  the  "  self-government "  spoken  of  is  not  the  government  of 
each  by  himself,  but  of  each  by  all  the  rest.  The  will  of  the 
people,  moreover,  practically  means  the  will  of  the  most  numer- 
ous or  the  most  active /ar/  of  the  people  ;  the  majority,  or  those 
who  succeed  in  making  themselves  accepted  as  the  majority  ;  the 
people,  consequently,  may  desire  to  oppress  a  part  of  their  num- 
iDer  ;  and  precautions  are  as  much  needed  against  this  as  against 
any  other  abuse  of  power.  The  limitation,  therefore,  of  the  power 
of  government  over  individuals  loses  none  of  its  importance  when 
the  holders  of  power  are  regularly  accountable  to  the  community, 
that  is,  to  the  strongest  power  therein.  This  view  of  things, 
recommending  itself  equally  to  the  intelligence  of  thinkers  and 
to  the  inclination  of  those  important  classes  in  European  society 
to  whose  real  or  supposed  interests  democracy  is  adverse,  has 
had  no  difficulty  in  establishing  itself ;  and  in  political  specula- 
tions "  the  tyranny  of  the  majority  "  is  now  generally  included 
among  the  evils  against  which  society  requires  to  be  on  its 


guard. 


Like  other  tyrannies,  the  tyranny  of  the  majority  was  at  first, 
and  is  still  vulgarly,  held  in  dread,  chiefly  as  operating  through 
the  acts  of  the  public  authorities.     But  reflecting  persons  per- 


JOHN  STUART  AflLl  39 1 

Ceived  that  when  society  is  itself  the  tyrant — society  collectively, 
over  the  separate  individuals  who  compose  it  —  its  means  of 
tyrannizing  are  not  restricted  to  the  acts  which  it  may  do  by 
the  hands  of  its  political  functionaries.  Society  can  and  does 
execute  its  own  mandates :  and  if  it  issues  wrong  mandates 
instead  of  right,  or  any  mandates  at  all  in  things  with  which  it 
ought  not  to  meddle,  it  practises  a  social  tyranny  more  formi- 
dable than  many  kinds  of  political  oppression,  since,  though  not 
usually  upheld  by  such  extreme  penalties,  it  leaves  fewer  means 
of  escape,  penetrating  much  more  deeply  into  the  details  of  life, 
and  enslaving  the  soul  itself.  Protection,  therefore,  against 
the  tyranny  of  the  magistrate  is  not  enough :  there  needs  pro- 
tection also  against  the  tyranny  of  the  prevailing  opinion  and 
feeling ;  against  the  tendency  of  society  to  impose,  by  other 
means  than  civil  penalties,  its  own  ideas  and  practices  as  rules  of 
conduct  on  those  who  dissent  from  them  ;  to  fetter  the  develop- 
ment, and,  if  possible,  prevent  the  formation,  of  any  individu- 
ality not  in  harmony  with  its  ways,  and  compel  all  characters 
to  fashion  themselves  upon  the  model  of  its  own.  There  is  a 
limit  to  the  legitimate  interference  of  collective  opinion  with 
individual  independence  ;  and  to  find  that  limit,  and  maintain 
it  against  encroachment,  is  as  indispensable  to  a  good  con- 
dition of  human  affairs,  as  protection  against  political  des- 
potism. 

But  though  this  proposition  is  not  likely  to  be  contested  in 
general  terms,  the  practical  question,  where  to  place  the  limit  — 
how  to  make  the  fitting  adjustment  between  individual  inde- 
pendence and  social  control  —  is  a  subject  on  which  nearly 
everything  remains  to  be  done.  All  that  makes  existence 
valuable  to  any  one,  depends  on  the  enforcement  of  restraints 
upon  the  actions  of  other  people.  Some  rules  of  conduct, 
therefore,  must  be  imposed,  by  law  in  the  first  place,  and  by 
opinion  on  many  things  which  are  not  fit  subjects  for  the  opera- 
tion of  law.  What  these  rules  should  be,  is  the  principal  ques- 
tion in  human  affairs  ;  but  if  we  except  a  few  of  the  most 
obvious  cases,  it  is  one  of  those  which  least  progress  has  been 
made  in  resolving.  No  two  ages,  and  scarcely  any  two  coun- 
tries, have   decided   it   alike ;  and  the   decision  of  one  age  or 


392 


CIVIL  LIBERTY 


country  is  a  wonder  to  another.  Yet  the  people  of  any  given 
age  and  country  no  more  suspect  any  difficulty  in  it,  than  if  it 
were  a  subject  on  which  mankind  had  always  been  agreed.  The 
rules  which  obtain  among  themselves  appear  to  them  self- 
evident  and  self-justifying.  This  all  but  universal  illusion  is 
one  of  the  examples  of  the  magical  influence  of  custom,  which 
is  not  only,  as  the  proverb  says,  a  second  nature,  but  is  continu- 
ally mistaken  for  the  first.  The  effect  of  custom,  in  preventing 
any  misgiving  respecting  the  rules  of  conduct  which  mankind 
impose  on  one  another,  is  all  the  more  complete  because  the 
subject  is  one  on  which  it  is  not  generally  considered  necessary 
that  reasons  should  be  given,  either  by  one  person  to  others,  or 
by  each  to  himself.  People  are  accustomed  to  believe,  and  have 
been  encouraged  in  the  belief  by  some  who  aspire  to  the  character 
of  philosophers,  that  their  feelings,  on  subjects  of  this  nature,  are 
better  than  reasons,  and  render  reasons  unnecessary.  The 
practical  opinion  which  guides  them  to  their  opinions  on  the 
regulation  of  human  conduct,  is  the  feeling  in  each  person's 
mind  that  everybody  should  be  required  to  act  as  he,  and  those 
with  whom  he  sympathizes,  would  like  them  to  act.  No  one, 
indeed,  acknowledges  to  himself  that  his  standard  of  judgment 
is  his  own  liking  ;  but  an  opinion  on  a  point  of  conduct,  not 
supported  by  reasons,  can  only  count  as  one  person's  prefer- 
ence ;  and  if  the  reasons,  when  given,  are  a  mere  appeal  to  a 
similar  preference  felt  by  other  people,  it  is  still  only  many 
people's  liking  instead  of  one.  To  an  ordinary  man,  however, 
his  own  preference,  thus  supported,  is  not  only,  a  perfectly 
satisfactory  reason,  but  the  only  one  he  generally  has  for  any 
of  his  notions  of  morality,  taste,  or  propriety,  which  are  not 
expressly  written  in  his  religious  creed ;  and  his  chief  guide  in 
the  interpretation  even  of  that.  Men's  opinions,  accordingly, 
on  what  is  laudable  or  blameable,  are  affected  by  all  the  multi- 
farious causes  which  influence  their  wishes  in  regard  to  the 
conduct  of  others,  and  which  are  as  numerous  as  those  which 
determine  their  wishes  on  any  other  subject.  Sometimes  their 
reason  — at  other  times  their  prejudices  or  superstitions  :  often 
their  social  affections,  not  seldom  their  antisocial  ones,  their 
envy   or  jealousy,    their   arrogance   or  contemptuousness  :  but 


JOHN  STUART  MILL  393 

most  commonly,  their  desires  or  fears  for  themselves  —  their 
legitimate  or  illegitimate  self-interest.  Wherever  there  is  an 
ascendant  class,  a  large  portion  of  the  morality  of  the  country 
emanates  from  its  class  interests,  and  its  feelings  of  class  supe- 
riority. The  morality  between  Spartans  and  Helots,  between 
planters  and  negroes,  between  princes  and  subjects,  between 
nobles  and  roturiers,  between  men  and  women,  has  been  for  the 
most  part  the  creation  of  these  class  interests  and  feelings  :  and 
the  sentiments  thus  generated,  react  in  turn  upon  the  moral  feel- 
ings of  the  members  of  the  ascendant  class,  in  their  relations 
among  themselves.  Where,  on  the  other  hand,  a  class,  formerly 
ascendant,  has  lost  its  ascendancy,  or  w^here  its  ascendancy  is 
unpopular,  the  prevailing  moral  sentiments  frequently  bear  the 
impress  of  an  impatient  dislike  of  superiority.  Another  grand 
determining  principle  of  the  rules  of  conduct,  both  in  act  and 
forbearance,  which  have  been  enforced  by  law  or  opinion,  has 
been  the  servility  of  mankind  towards  the  supposed  preferences 
or  aversions  of  their  temporal  masters  or  of  their  gods.  This 
servility,  though  essentially  selfish,  is  not  hypocrisy ;  it  gives 
rise  to  perfectly  genuine  sentiments  of  abhorrence  ;  it  made  men 
burn  magicians  and  heretics.  Among  so  many  baser  influences, 
the  general  and  obvious  interests  of  society  have  of  course  had 
a  share,  and  a  large  one,  in  the  direction  of  the  moral  senti- 
ments :  less,  however,  as  a  matter  of  reason,  and  on  their 
own  account,  than  as  a  consequence  of  the  sympathies  and 
antipathies  which  grew  out  of  them  :  and  sympathies  and  antip- 
athies which  had  little  or  nothing  to  do  with  the  interests  of 
society,  have  made  themselves  felt  in  the  establishment  of 
moralities  with  quite  as  great  force. 

The  likings  and  dislikings  of  society,  or  of  some  powerful  por- 
tion of  it,  are  thus  the  main  thing  which  has  practically  deter- 
mined the  rules  laid  down  for  general  observance,  under  the 
penalties  of  law  or  opinion.  And  in  general,  those  who  have 
been  in  advance  of  society  in  thought  and  feeling,  have  left  this 
condition  of  things  unassailed  in  principle,  however  they  may 
have  come  into  conflict  with  it  in  some  of  its  details.  They  have 
occupied  themselves  rather  in  inquiring  what  things  society  ought 
to  like  or  dislike,  than  in  questioning  whether  its  likings  or  dis- 


394  CIVIL  LIBERTY 

likings  should  be  a  law  to  individuals.  They  preferred  endeav- 
ouring to  alter  the  feelings  of  mankind  on  the  particular  points 
on  which  they  were  themselves  heretical,  rather  than  make  com- 
mon cause  in  defence  of  freedom,  with  heretics  generally.  The 
only  case  in  which  the  higher  ground  has  been  taken  on  principle 
and  maintained  with  consistency,  by  any  but  an  individual  here 
and  there,  is  that  of  religious  belief :  a  case  instructive  in  many 
ways  and  not  least  so  as  forming  a  most  striking  instance  of  the 
fallibility  of  what  is  called  the  moral  sense :  for  the  odium  theo- 
logicum,  in  a  sincere  bigot,  is  one  of  the  most  unequivocal  cases 
of  moral  feeling.  Those  who  first  broke  the  yoke  of  what  called 
itself  the  Universal  Church,  were  in  general  as  little  willing  to 
permit  difference  of  religious  opinion  as  that  church  itself.  But 
when  the  heat  of  the  conflict  was  over,  without  giving  a  com- 
plete victory  to  any  party,  and  each  church  or  sect  was  reduced 
to  limit  its  hopes  to  retaining  possession  of  the  ground  it  already 
occupied  ;  minorities,  seeing  that  they  had  no  chance  of  becom- 
ing majorities,  were  under  the  necessity  of  pleading  to  those 
whom  they  could  not  convert,  for  permission  to  differ.  It  is 
accordingly  on  this  battle-field,  almost  solely,  that  the  rights  of 
the  individual  against  society  have  been  asserted  on  broad 
grounds  of  principle,  and  the  claim  of  society  to  exercise  author- 
ity over  dissentients,  openly  controverted.  The  great  writers  to 
whom  the  world  owes  what  religious  liberty  it  possesses,  have 
mostly  asserted  freedom  of  conscience  as  an  indefeasible  right,  and 
denied  absolutely  that  a  human  being  is  accountable  to  others 
for  his  religious  belief.  Yet  so  natural  to  mankind  is  intolerance 
in  whatever  they  really  care  about,  that  religious  freedom  has 
hardly  anywhere  been  practically  realized,  except  where  religious 
indifference,  which  dislikes  to  have  its  peace  disturbed  by  theo- 
logical quarrels,  has  added  its  weight  to  the  scale.  In  the  minds 
of  almost  all  religious  persons,  even  in  the  most  tolerant  countries, 
the  duty  of  toleration  is  admitted  with  tacit  reserves.  One  per- 
son will  bear  with  dissent  in  matters  of  church  government,  but 
not  of  dogma  ;  another  can  tolerate  everybody,  short  of  a  Papist 
or  an  Unitarian  ;  another,  every  one  who  believes  in  revealed 
religion  ;  a  few  extend  their  charity  a  little  further,  but  stop  at 
the  belief  in  a  God  and  in  a  future  state.     Wherever  the  sentiment 


JOHN  STUART  MILL  305 

of  the  majority  is  still  genuine  and  intense,  it  is  found  to  have 
abated  little  of  its  claim  to  be  obeyed. 

In  England,  from  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  our  political 
history,  though  the  yoke  of  opinion  is  perhaps  heavier,  that  of 
law  is  lighter,  than  in  most  other  countries  of  Europe  ;  and  there 
is  considerable  jealousy  of  direct  interference,  by  the  legislative 
or  the  executive  power,  with  private  conduct ;  not  so  much  from 
any  just  regard  for  the  independence  of  the  individual,  as  from 
the  still  subsisting  habit  of  looking  on  the  government  as  repre- 
senting an  opposite  interest  to  the  public.  The  majority  have 
not  yet  learnt  to  feel  the  power  of  the  government  their  power, 
or  its  opinions  their  opinions.  When  they  do  so,  individual 
liberty  will  probably  be  as  much  exposed  to  invasion  from  the 
government,  as  it  already  is  from  public  opinion.  But,  as  yet, 
there  is  a  considerable  amount  of  feeling  ready  to  be  called  forth 
against  any  attempt  of  the  law  to  control  individuals  in  things 
in  which  they  have  not  hitherto  been  accustomed  to  be  controlled 
by  it ;  and  this  with  very  little  discrimination  as  to  whether  the 
matter  is,  or  is  not,  within  the  legitimate  sphere  of  legal  control ; 
insomuch  that  the  feeling,  highly  salutary  on  the  whole,  is  per- 
haps quite  as  often  misplaced  as  well  grounded  in  the  particular 
instances  of  its  application.  There  is,  in  fact,  no  recognized 
principle  by  which  the  propriety  or  impropriety  of  government 
interference  is  customarily  tested.  People  decide  according  to 
their  personal  preferences.  Some,  whenever  they  see  any  good 
to  be  done,  or  evil  to  be  remedied,  would  willingly  instigate  the 
government  to  undertake  the  business  ;  while  others  prefer  to 
bear  almost  any  amount  of  social  evil,  rather  than  add  one  to 
the  departments  of  human  interests  amenable  to  government 
control.  And  men  range  themselves  on  one  or  the  other  side 
in  any  particular  case,  according  to  this  general  direction  of  their 
sentiments ;  or  according  to  the  degree  of  interest  which  they 
feel  in  the  particular  thing  which  it  is  proposed  that  the  govern- 
ment should  do  ;  or  according  to  the  belief  they  entertain  that  the 
government  would,  or  would  not,  do  it  in  the  manner  they  prefer  ; 
but  very  rarely  on  account  of  any  opinion  to  which  they  consist- 
ently adhere,  as  to  what  things  are  fit  to  be  done  by  a  govern- 
ment.    And  it  seems  to  me  that,  in  consequence  of  this  absence 


39^  CIVIL  LIBERTY 

of  rule  or  principle,  one  side  is  at  present  as  often  wrong  as  the 
other ;  the  interference  of  government  is,  with  about  equal  fre- 
quency, improperly  invoked  and  improperly  condemned. 

The  object  of  this  Essay  is   to  assert  one  very  simple  prin- 
ciple, as  entitled  to  govern  absolutely  the  deaUngs  of  society 
with   the  individual    in  the   way   of   compulsion   and   control, 
whether  the  means  used  be  physical  force  in  the  form  of  leo-al 
penalties,  or  the  moral  coercion  of  public  opinion.     That  prin- 
ciple is,  that  the  sole  end  for  which  mankind  are  warranted, 
individually  or  collectively,  in  interfering  with  the  hberty  of 
action  of  any  of  their  number,  is  self-protection.     That  the  only 
purpose  for  which  power  can  be  rightfully  exercised  over  any 
member  of  a  civilized  community,  against  his  will,  is  to  pre- 
vent harm  to  others.     His  own  good,  either  physical  or  moral, 
is  not  a  sufficient  warrant.     He  cannot  rightfully  be  compelled 
to  do  or  forbear  because  it  will  be  better  for  him  to  do  so,  be- 
cause it  will  make  him  happier,  because,  in  the   opinions  of 
others,  to  do  so  would  be  wise,  or  even  right.     These  are  good 
reasons  for  remonstrating  with  him,  or  reasoning  with  him,  or 
persuading  him  or  entreating  him,  but  not  for  compelling  him, 
or  visiting  him  with  any  evil,   in  case    he  do  otherwise.      To 
justify  that,  the  conduct  from  which  it  is  desired  to  deter  him 
must  be  calculated  to  produce  evil  to  some  one  else.     The  only 
part  of  the  conduct  of  any  one,  for  which  he  is  amenable  to 
society,  is  that   which   concerns   others.      In    the   part  which 
merely  concerns  himself,  his  independence  is,  of  right,  absolute. 
Over  himself,  over  his  own  body  and  mind,  the  individual  is 
sovereign. 

'  It  is,  perhaps,  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  this  doctrine  is 
meant  to  apply  only  to  human  beings  in  the  maturity  of  their 
faculties.  We  are  not  speaking  of  children,  or  of  young  persons 
below  the  age  Avhich  the  law  may  fix  as  that  of  manhood  or 
womanhood.  Those  who  are  still  in  a  state  to  require  being 
taken  care  of  by  others,  must  be  protected  against,  their  own 
actions  as  well  as  against  external  injury.  For  the  same  reason, 
we  may  leave  out  of  consideration  those  backward  states  of 
society  in  which  the  race  itself  may  be  considered  as  in  its 
nonage.     The  early  difficulties  in  the  way  of  spontaneous  prog- 


JOHN  STUART  MILL  397 

ress  are  so  great,  that  there  is  seldom  any  choice  of  means  for 
overcoming  them ;  and  a  ruler  full  of  the  spirit  of  improve- 
ment is  warranted  in  the  use  of  any  expedients  that  will  attain 
an  end,  perhaps  otherwise  unattainable.  Despotism  is  a  legiti- 
mate mode  of  government  in  dealing  with  barbarians,  provided 
the  end  be  their  improvement,  and  the  means  justified  by 
actually  affecting  that  end.  Liberty,  as  a  principle,  has  no  ap- 
plication to  any  state  of  things  anterior  to  the  time  when  man- 
kind have  become  capable  of  being  improved  by  free  and  equal 
discussion.  Until  then,  there  is  nothing  for  them  but  implicit 
obedience  to  an  Abkar  or  a  Charlemagne,  if  they  are  so  for- 
tunate as  to  find  one.  But  as  soon  as  mankind  have  attained 
the  capacity  of  being  guided  to  their  own  improvement  by  con- 
viction or  persuasion  (a  period  long  since  reached  in  all  nations 
with  whom  we  need  here  concern  ourselves),  compulsion,  either 
in  the  direct  form  or  in  that  of  pains  and  penalties  for  non- 
compliance, is  no  longer  admissible  as  a  means  to  their  own 
good,  and  justifiable  only  for  the  security  of  others. 

It  is  proper  to  state  that  I  forego  any  advantage  which  could 
be  derived  to  my  argument  from  the  idea  of  abstract  right,  as  a 
thing  independent  of  utility.  I  regard  utility  as  the  ultimate 
appeal  on  all  ethical  questions  ;  but  it  must  be  utility  in  the 
largest  sense,  grounded  on  the  permanent  interests  of  man  as 
a  progressive  being.  Those  interests,  I  contend,  authorize  the 
subjection  of  individual  spontaneity  to  external  control,  only  in 
respect  to  those  actions  of  each,  which  concern  the  interest  of 
other  people.  If  any  one  does  an  act  hurtful  to  others,  there  is 
prima  facie  case  for  punishing  him,  by  law,  or,  where  legal 
penalties  are  not  safely  applicable,  by  general  disapprobation. 
There  are  also  many  positive  acts  for  the  benefit  of  others, 
which  he  may  rightfully  be  compelled  to  perform  ;  such  as  to 
give  evidence  in  a  court  of  justice  ;  to  bear  his  fair  share  in 
the  common  defence,  or  in  any  other  joint  work  necessary  to 
the  interest  of  the  society  of  which  he  enjoys  the  protection  ; 
and  to  perform  certain  acts  of  individual  beneficence,  such  as 
saving  a  fellow-creature's  life,  or  interposing  to  protect  the  de- 
fenceless against  ill-usage,  things  which  whenever  it  is  obviously 
a  man's  duty  to  do,  he  may  rightfully  be  made  responsible  to 


398  CIVIL  LIBERTY 

society  for  not  doing.  A  person  may  cause  evil  to  others  not 
only  by  his  action  but  by  his  inaction,  and  in  either  case  he 
is  justly  accountable  to  them  for  the  injury.  The  latter  case, 
it  is  true,  requires  a  much  more  cautious  exercise  of  compulsion 
than  the  former.  To  make  any  one  answerable  for  doing  evil 
to  others,  is  the  rule ;  to  make  him  answerable  for  not  prevent- 
ing evil,  is,  comparatively  speaking,  the  exception.  Yet  there 
are  many  cases  clear  enough  and  grave  enough  to  justify  that 
exception.  In  all  things  which  regard  the  external  relations 
of  the  individual,  he  is  de  juj-e  amenable  to  those  whose  in- 
terests are  concerned,  and  if  need  be,  to  society  as  their  pro- 
tector. There  are  often  good  reasons  for  not  holding  him  to 
the  responsibility  ;  but  these  reasons  must  arise  from  the  special 
expediencies  of  the  case  :  either  because  it  is  a  kind  of  case  in 
which  he  is  on  the  whole  likely  to  act  better,  when  left  to  his 
own  discretion,  than  when  controlled  in  anyway  in  which  society 
have  it  in  their  power  to  control  him ;  or  because  the  attempt 
to  exercise  control  would  produce  other  evils,  greater  than  those 
which  it  would  prevent.  When  such  reasons  as  these  preclude 
the  enforcement  of  responsibility,  the  conscience  of  the  agent 
himself  should  step  into  the  vacant  judgment-seat,  and  protect 
those  interests  of  others  which  have  no  external  protection ; 
judging  himself  all  the  more  rigidly,  because  the  case  does 
not  admit  of  his  bfeing  made  accountable  to  the  judgment  of  his 
fellow-creatures. 

But  there  is  a  sphere  of  action  in  which  society,  as  distin- 
guished from  the  individual,  has,  if  any,  only  an  indirect  interest ; 
comprehending  all  that  portion  of  a  person's  life  and  conduct 
which  affects  only  himself,  or  if  it  also  affects  others,  only  with 
their  free,  voluntary,  and  undeceived  consent  and  participation. 
When  I  say  only  himself,  I  mean  directly,  and  in  the  first 
instance  :  for  what  affects  himself,  may  affect  others  through 
himself  ;  and  the  objection  which  may  be  grounded  on  this  con- 
tingency, will  receive  consideration  in  the  sequel.  This,  then, 
is  the  appropriate  region  of  human  liberty.  It  comprises,  first, 
the  inward  domain  of  consciousness ;  demanding  liberty  of  con- 
science, in  the  most  comprehensive  sense  ;  liberty  of  thought 
and  feeling ;  absolute  freedom  of  opinion  and  sentiment  on  all 


JOHN  STUART  MILL  399 

subjects,  practical  or  speculative,  scientific,  moral,  or  theological, 
The  liberty  of  expressing  and  publishing  opinions  may  seem  to 
fall  under  a  different  principle,  since  it  belongs  to  that  part  of 
the  conduct  of  an  individual  which  concerns  other  people ;  but, 
being  almost  of  as  much  importance  as  the  liberty  of  thought 
itself,  and  resting  in  great  part  on  the  same  reasons,  is  practi- 
cally inseparable  from  it.  Secondly,  the  principle  requires 
liberty  of  tastes  and  pursuits  ;  or  framing  the  plan  of  our  life 
to  suit  our  own  character ;  of  doing  as  we  like,  subject  to  such 
consequences  as  may  follow :  without  impediment  from  our 
fellow-creatures,  so  long  as  what  we  do  does  not  harm  them, 
even  though  they  should  think  our  conduct  foolish,  perverse,  or 
wrong.  Thirdly,  from  this  liberty  of  each  individual,  follows  the 
liberty,  within  the  same  limits,  of  combination  among  individ- 
uals ;  freedom  to  unite,  for  any  purpose  not  involving  harm  to 
others  :  the  persons  combining  being  supposed  to  be  of  full  age, 
and  not  forced  or  deceived. 

No  society  in  which  these  liberties  are  not,  on  the  whole, 
respected,  is  free,  whatever  may  be  its  form  of  government ;  and 
none  is  completely  free  in  which  they  do  not  exist  absolute  and 
unqualified.  The  only  freedom  which  deserves  the  name,  is  that 
of  pursuing  our  own  good  in  our  own  way,  so  long  as  we  do  not 
attempt  to  deprive  others  of  theirs,  or  impede  their  efforts  to 
obtain  it.  Each  is  the  proper  guardian  of  his  own  health, 
whether  bodily,  or  mental  and  spiritual.  Mankind  are  greater 
gainers  by  suffering  each  other  to  live  as  seems  good  to  them- 
selves, than  by  compelling  each  to  live  as  seems  good  to  the 
rest. 

Though  this  doctrine  is  anything  but  new,  and,  to  some  per- 
sons, may  have  the  air  of  a  truism,  there  is  no  doctrine  which 
stands  more  directly  opposed  to  the  general  tendency  of  existing 
opinion  and  practice.  Society  has  expended  fully  as  much  effort 
in  the  attempt  (according  to  its  lights)  to  compel  people  to  con- 
form to  its  notions  of  personal,  as  of  social  excellence.  The 
ancient  commonwealths  thought  themselves  entitled  to  practise, 
and  the  ancient  philosophers  countenanced,  the  regulation  of 
every  part  of  private  conduct  by  public  authority,  on  the  ground 
that  the   State  had   a  deep  interest  m   the  whole  bodily   and 


400  CIVIL  LIBERTY 

mental  discipline  of  every  one  of  its  citizens ;  a  mode  of  thinking 
which  may  have  been  admissible  in  small  republics  surrounded 
by  powerful  enemies,  in  constant  peril  of  being  subverted  by 
foreign  attack  or  internal  commotion,  and  to  which  even  a  short 
interval  of  relaxed  energy  and  self-command  might  so  easily  be 
fatal,  that  they  could  not  afford  to  wait  for  the  salutary  perma- 
nent effects  of  freedom.  In  the  modern  world,  the  greater  size 
of  political  communities,  and  above  all,  the  separation  between 
the  spiritual  and  temporal  authority  (which  placed  the  direction 
of  men's  consciences  in  other  hands  than  those  which  controlled 
their  worldly  affairs),  prevented  so  great  an  interference  by  law 
in  the  details  of  private  life  ;  but  the  engines  of  moral  repression 
have  been  wielded  more  strenuously  against  divergence  from  the 
reigning  opinion  in  self-regarding,  than  even  in  social  matters; 
religion,  the  most  powerful  of  the  elements  which  have  entered 
into  the  formation  of  moral  feeling,  having  almost  always  been 
governed  either  by  the  ambition  of  a  hierarchy,' seeking  control 
over  every  department  of  human  conduct,  or  by  the  spirit  of 
Puritanism.  And  some  of  those  modern  reformers  who  have 
placed  themselves  in  strongest  opposition  to  the  religions  of  the 
past,  have  been  noway  behind  either  churches  or  sects  in  their 
assertion  of  the  right  of  spiritual  domination :  M.  Comte,  in 
particular,  whose  social  system,  as  unfolded  in  his  Systeme  de 
Politique  Positive,  aims  at  establishing  (though  by  moral  more 
than  by  legal  appliances)  a  despotism  of  society  over  the  indi- 
vidual, surpassing  anything  contemplated  in  the  political  ideal 
of  the  most  rigid  disciplinarian  among  the  ancient  philosophers. 
Apart  from  the  peculiar  tenets  of  individual  thinkers,  there  is 
also  in  the  world  at  large  an  increasing  inclination  to  stretch 
unduly  the  powers  of  society  over  the  individual,  both  by  the 
force  of  opinion  and  even  by  that  of  legislation  ;  and  as  the  ten- 
dency of  all  the  changes  taking  place  in  the  world  is  to  strengthen 
society,  and  diminish  the  power  of  the  individual,  this  encroach- 
ment is  not  one  of  the  evils  which  tend  spontaneously  to  dis- 
appear, but,  on  the  contrary,  to  grow  more  and  more  formidable. 
The  disposition  of  mankind,  whether  as  rulers  or  as  fellow- 
citizens,  to  impose  their  own  opinions  and  inclinations  as  a  rule 
of  conduct  on  others,  is  so  energetically  supported  by  some  of 


JOHN  SrUART  MILL  4OI 

the  best  and  by  some  of  the  worst  feelings  incident  to  human 
nature,  that  it  is  hardly  ever  kept  under  restraint  by  anything 
but  want  of  power  ;  and  as  the  power  is  not  declining,  but  grow- 
ing, unless  a  strong  barrier  of  moral  conviction  can  be  raised 
against  the  mischief,  we  must  expect,  in  the  present  circum- 
stances of  the  world,  to  see  it  increase. 

It  will  be  convenient  for  the  argument,  if,  instead  of  at  once 
entering  upon  the  general  thesis,  we  confine  ourselves  in  the  first 
instance  to  a  single  branch  of  it,  on  which  the  principle  here 
stated  is,  if  not  fully,  yet  to  a  certain  point,  recognized  by  the 
current  opinions.  This  one  branch  is  the  Liberty  of  Thought; 
from  which  it  is  impossible  to  separate  the  cognate  liberty  of 
speaking  and  of  writing.  Although  these  liberties,  to  some 
considerable  amount,  form  part  of  the  political  morality  of  all 
countries  which  profess  religious  toleration  and  free  institutions, 
the  grounds,  both  philosophical  and  practical,  on  which  they 
rest,  are  perhaps  not  so  familiar  to  the  general  mind,  nor  so 
thoroughly  appreciated  by  many  even  of  the  leaders  of  opinion, 
as  might  have  been  expected.  Those  grounds,  when  rightly 
understood,  are  of  much  wider  application  than  to  only  one 
division  of  the  subject,  and  a  thorough  consideration  of  this 
part  of  the  question  will  be  found  the  best  introduction  to  the 
remainder.  Those  to  whom  nothing  which  I  am  about  to  say 
will  be  new,  may  therefore,  I  hope,  excuse  me,  if  on  a  subject 
which  for  now  three  centuries  has  been  so  often  discussed,  I 
venture  on  one  discussion  more. 


NIL   NISI   BONUM 

WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 
[From  Roundabout  Papers,  1863.] 

Almost  the  last  words  which  Sir  Walter  spoke  to  Lockhart, 
his  biographer,  were,  "  Be  a  good  man,  my  dear !  "  and  with  the 
last  flicker  of  breath  on  his  dying  lips,  he  sighed  a  farewell  to 
his  family,  and  passed  away  blessing  them. 

Two  men,  famous,  admired,  beloved,  have  just  left  us,  the 
2  D 


402  NIL  NISI  BONUM 

Goldsmith  and  the  Gibbon  of  our  time.^  Ere  a  few  weeks  are 
over,  many  a  critic's  pen  will  be  at  work,  reviewing  their  lives 
and  passing  judgment  on  their  works.  This  is  no  review,  or 
history,  or  criticism :  only  a  word  in  testimony  of  respect  and 
regard  from  a  man  of  letters,  who  owes  to  his  own  professional 
labour  the  honour  of  becoming  acquainted  with  these  two  emi- 
nent literary  men.  One  was  the  first  ambassador  whom  the 
New  World  of  Letters  sent  to  the  Old.  He  was  born  almost 
with  the  republic ;  the  pater  patrice.  ^  had  laid  his  hand  on  the 
child's  head.  He  bore  Washington's  name:  he  came  amongst 
us  bringing  the  kindest  sympathy,  the  most  artless,  smiling 
goodwill.  His  new  country  (which  some  people  here  might  be 
disposed  to  regard  rather  superciliously)  could  send  us,  as  he 
showed  in  his  own  person,  a  gentleman,  who,  though  himself 
born  in  no  very  high  sphere,  was  most  finished,  polished,  easy, 
witty,  quiet ;  and,  socially,  the  equal  of  the  most  refined  Euro- 
peans. If  Irving's  welcome  in  England  was  a  kind  one,  was  it 
not  also  gratefully  remembered  ?  If  he  ate  our  salt,  did  he  not 
pay  us  with  a  thankful  heart  ?  Who  can  calculate  the  amount 
of  friendliness  and  good  feeling  for  our  country  which  this 
writer's  generous  and  untiring  regard  for  us  disseminated  in  his 
own?  His  books  are  read  by  millions^  of  his  countrymen, 
whom  he  has  taught  to  love  England,  and  why  to  love  her.  It 
would  have  been  easy  to  speak  otherwise  than  he  did  :  to  inflame 
national  rancours,  which,  at  the  time  when  he  first  became 
known  as  a  public  writer,  war  had  just  renewed :  to  cry  down 
the  old  civilization  at  the  expense  of  the  new :  to  point  out  our 
faults,  arrogance,  short-comings,  and  give  the  republic  to  infer 
how  much  she  was  the  parent  state's  superior.  There  are  writers 
enough  in  the  United  States,  honest  and  otherwise,  who  preach 
that  kind  of  doctrine.  But  the  good  Irving,  the  peaceful,  the 
friendly,  had  no  place  for  bitterness  in  his  heart,  and  no  scheme 
but  kindness.     Received  in  England  with  extraordinary  tender- 

1  Washington  Irving  died,  November  28, 1859  ;  Lord  Macaulay  died,  December 
28,  1859. 

2  [Father  of  his  country.] 

3  See  his  Life  in  the  most  remarkable  Dictionary  of  Authors,  published  lately  at 
Philadelphia,  by  Mr.  Alibone. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY  403 

ness  and  friendship  (Scott,  Southey,  Byron,  a  hundred  others 
have  borne  witness  to  their  liking  for  him),  he  was  a  messenger 
of  goodwill  and  peace  between  his  country  and  ours.  "See, 
friends  !  "  he  seems  to  say,  "  these  English  are  not  so  wicked, 
rapacious,  callous,  proud,  as  you  have  been  taught  to  believe 
them,  I  went  amongst  them  a  humble  man  ;  won  my  way  by 
my  pen  ;  and,  when  known,  found  every  hand  held  out  to  me 
with  kindliness  and  welcome.  Scott  is  a  great  man,  you 
acknowledge.  Did  not  Scott's  King  of  England  give  a  gold 
medal  to  him,  and  another  to  me,  your  countryman,  and  a 
stranger  ?  " 

Tradition  in  the  United  States  still  fondly  retains  the  history 
of  the  feasts  and  rejoicings  which  awaited  Irving  on  his  return 
to  his  native  country  from  Europe.  He  had  a  national  wel- 
come ;  he  stammered  in  his  speeches,  hid  himself  in  confusion, 
and  the  people  loved  him  all  the  better.  He  had  worthily  rep- 
resented America  in  Europe.  In  that  young  community  a  man 
who  brings  home  with  him  abundant  European  testimonials  is 
still  treated  with  respect  (I  have  found  American  writers,  of 
wide-world  reputation,  strangely  solicitous  about  the  opinions  of 
quite  obscure  British  critics,  and  elated  or  depressed  by  their 
judgments)  ;  and  Irving  went  home  medalled  by  the  King,  diplo- 
matized by  the  University,  crowned  and  honoured  and  admired. 
He  had  not  in  any  way  intrigued  for  his  honours,  he  had  fairly 
won  them ;  and,  in  Irving's  instance,  as  in  others,  the  old  coun- 
try was  glad  and  eager  to  pay  them. 

In  America  the  love  and  regard  for  Irving  was  a  national 
sentiment.  Party  wars  are  perpetually  raging  there,  and  are 
carried  on  by  the  press  with  a  rancour  and  fierceness  against 
individuals  which  exceed  British,  almost  Irish,  virulence.  It 
seemed  to  me,  during  a  year's  travel  in  the  country,  as  if  no  one 
ever  aimed  a  blow  at  Irving.  All  men  held  their  hands  from 
that  harmless,  friendly  peacemaker.  I  had  the  good  fortune  to 
see  him  at  New  York,  Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  and  Washing- 
ton,^ and  remarked  how  in  every  place  he  was  honoured  and 


1  At  Washington,  Mr.  Irving  came  to  a  lecture  given  by  the  writer,  which  Mr. 
Fillmore  and  General  Pierce,  the  President  and  President  Elect,  were  also  kind 


404  NIL  NISI  BONUM 

welcome.  Every  large  city  has  its  "Irving  House."  The 
country  takes  pride  in  the  fame  of  its  men  of  letters.  The  gate 
of  his  own  charming  little  domain  on  the  beautiful  Hudson 
River  was  for  ever  swinging  before  visitors  who  came  to  him. 
He  shut  out  no  one.^  I  had  seen  many  pictures  of  his  house, 
and  read  descriptions  of  it,  in  both  of  which  it  was  treated  with 
a  not  unusual  American  exaggeration.  It  was  but  a  pretty  Httle 
cabin  of  a  place ;  the  gentleman  of  the  press  who  took  notes  of 
the  place,  whilst  his  kind  old  host  was  sleeping,  might  have  vis- 
ited the  whole  house  in  a  couple  of  minutes. 

And  how  came  it  that  this  house  was  so  small,  when  Mr. 
Irving's  books  were  sold  by  hundreds  of  thousands,  nay,  mill- 
ions, when  his  profits  were  known  to  be  large,  and  the  habits 
of  life  of  the  good  old  bachelor  were  notoriously  modest  and 
simple?  He  had  loved  once  in  his  life.  The  lady  he  loved 
died  ;  and  he,  whom  all  the  world  loved,  never  sought  to  replace 
her.  I  can't  say  how  much  the  thought  of  that  fidelity  has 
touched  me.  Does  not  the  very  cheerfulness  of  his  after  hfe 
add  to  the  pathos  of  that  untold  story  ?  To  grieve  always  was 
not  in  his  nature ;  or,  when  he  had  his  sorrow,  to  bring  all  the 
world  in  to  condole  with  him  and  bemoan  it.  Deep  and  quiet  he 
lays  the  love  of  his  heart,  and  buries  it ;  and  grass  and  flowers 
grow  over  the  scarred  ground  in  due  time. 

Irving  had  such  a  small  house  and  such  narrow  rooms,  be- 
cause there  was  a  great  number  of  people  to  occupy  them.  He 
could  only  afiford  to  keep  one  old  horse  (which,  lazy  and  aged  as 
it  was,  managed  once  or  twice  to  run  away  with  that  careless  old 
horseman).  He  could  only  afford  to  give  plain  sherry  to  that 
amiable  British  paragraph-monger  from  New  York,  who  saw  the 


enough  to  attend  together.     "  Two  Kings  of  Brentford  smelling  at  one  rose,"  says 
Irving,  looking  up  with  his  good-humoured  smile. 

iMr.  Irving  described  to  me,  with  that  humour  and  good  humour  which  he 
always  kept,  how,  amongst  other  visitors,  a  member  of  the  British  press  who  had 
carried  his  distinguished  pen  to  America  (where  he  employed  it  in  vilifying  his  own 
country)  came  to  Sunnyside,  introduced  himself  to  Irving,  partook  of  his  wine 
and  luncheon,  and  in  two  days  described  Mr.  Irving,  his  house,  his  nieces,  his 
meal,  and  his  manner  of  dozing  afterwards,  in  a  New  York  paper.  On  another 
occasion,  Irving  said,  laughing,  "Two  persons  came  to  me,  and  one  held  me  in 
conversation  whilst  the  other  miscreant  took  my  portrait !  " 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY  405 

patriarch  asleep  over  his  modest,  blameless  cup,  and  fetched  the 
public  into  his  private  chamber  to  look  at  him.  Irving  could 
only  live  very  modestly,  because  the  wifeless,  childless  man  had 
a  number  of  children  to  whom  he  was  as  a  father.  He  had  as 
many  as  nine  nieces,  I  am  told  —  I  saw  two  of  these  ladies  at 
his  house  —  with  all  of  whom  the  dear  old  man  had  shared  the 
produce  of  his  labour  and  genius. 

^'■Be  a  good  man,  my  deary  One  can't  but  think  of  these  last 
words  of  the  veteran  Chief  of  Letters,  who  had  tasted  and  tested 
the  value  of  worldly  success,  admiration,  prosperity.  Was  Irv- 
ing not  good,  and  of  his  works,  was  not  his  life  the  best  part  ? 
In  his  family,  gentle,  generous,  good-humoured,  affectionate, 
self-denying:  in  society,  a  delightful  example  of  complete 
gentlemanhood ;  quite  unspoiled  by  prosperity ;  never  obse- 
quious to  the  great  (or,  worse  still,  to  the  base  and  mean,  as 
some  public  men  are  forced  to  be  in  his  and  other  countries)  ; 
eager  to  acknowledge  every  contemporary's  merit ;  always  kind 
and  affable  to  the  young  members  of  his  calling ;  in  his  pro- 
fessional bargains  and  mercantile  dealings  delicately  honest  and 
grateful ;  one  of  the  most  charming  masters  of  our  lighter  lan- 
guage ;  the  constant  friend  to  us  and  our  nation  ;  to  men  of 
letters  doubly  dear,  not  for  his  wit  and  genius  merely,  but  as  an 
exemplar  of  goodness,  probity,  and  pure  life:  —  I  don't  know 
what  sort  of  testimonial  will  be  raised  to  him  in  his  own  coun- 
try, where  generous  and  enthusiastic  acknowledgment  of  Ameri- 
can merit  is  never  wanting ;  but  Irving  was  in  our  service  as 
well  as  theirs  ;  and  as  they  have  placed  a  stone  at  Greenwich 
yonder  in  memory  of  that  gallant  young  Bellot,  who  shared  the 
perils  and  fate  of  some  of  our  Arctic  seamen,  I  would  like  to 
hear  of  some  memorial  raised  by  English  writers  and  friends  of 
letters  in  affectionate  remembrance  of  the  dear  and  good  Wash- 
ington Irving. 

As  for  the  other  writer,  whose  departure  many  friends,  some 
few  most  dearly-loved  relatives,  and  multitudes  of  admiring 
readers  deplore,  our  republic  has  already  decreed  his  statue, 
and  he  must  have  known  that  he  had  earned  this  posthumous 
honour.  He  is  not  a  poet  and  man  of  letters  merely,  but  citi- 
zen, statesman,  a  great  British  worthy.     Almost  from  the  first 


406  NIL  NISI  BONUM 

moment  when  he  appears,  amongst  boys,  amongst  college  stu- 
dents, amongst  men,  he  is  marked,  and  takes  rank  as  a  great 
Englishman.  All  sorts  of  successes  are  easy  to  him  :  as  a  lad 
he  goes  down  into  the  arena  with  others,  and  wins  all  the  prizes 
to  which  he  has  a  mind.  A  place  in  the  senate  is  straightway 
offered  to  the  young  man.  He  takes  his  seat  there  ;  he  speaks, 
when  so  minded,  without  party  anger  or  intrigue,  but  not  with- 
out party  faith  and  a  sort  of  heroic  enthusiasm  for  his  cause. 
Still  he  is  poet  and  philosopher  even  more  than  orator.  That 
he  may  have  leisure  and  means  to  pursue  his  darling  studies,  he 
absents  himself  for  a  while,  and  accepts  a  richly-remunerative 
post  in  the  East.  As  learned  a  man  may  live  in  a  cottage  or  a 
college  common-room ;  but  it  always  seemed  to  me  that  ample 
means  and  recognized  rank  were  Macaulay's  as  of  right.  Years 
ago  there  was  a  wretched  outcry  raised  because  Mr.  Macaulay 
dated  a  letter  from  Windsor  Castle,  where  he  was  staying. 
Immortal  gods  !  Was  this  man  not  a  fit  guest  for  any  palace  in 
the  world?  or  a  fit  companion  for  any  man  or  woman  in  it? 
I  dare  say,  after  Austerlitz,  the  old  K.  K.^  court  officials  and 
footmen  sneered  at  Napoleon  for  dating  from  Schonbrunn.  But 
that  miserable  "  Windsor  Castle  "  outcry  is  an  echo  out  of  fast- 
retreating  old  world  remembrances.  The  place  of  such  a  natural 
chief  was  amongst  the  first  in  the  land  ;  and  that  country  is  best, 
according  to  our  British  notion  at  least,  where  the  man  of 
eminence  has  the  best  chance  of  investing  his  genius  and 
intellect. 

If  a  company  of  giants  were  got  together,  very  likely  one  or 
two  of  the  mere  six-feet-six  people  might  be  angry  at  the  incon- 
testable superiority  of  the  very  tallest  of  the  party :  and  so  I 
have  heard  some  London  wits,  rather  peevish  at  Macaulay's 
superiority,  complain  that  he  occupied  too  much  of  the  talk,  and 
so  forth.  Now  that  wonderful  tongue  is  to  speak  no  more,  will 
not  many  a  man  grieve  that  he  no  longer  has  the  chance  to  lis- 
ten ?  To  remember  the  talk  is  to  wonder :  to  think  not  only  of 
the  treasures  he  had  in  his  memory,  but  of  the  trifles  he  had 
stored  there,  and  could  produce  with  equal  readiness.  Almost 
on  the  last  day  I  had  the  fortune  to  see  him,  a  conversation 

1  \Kaiserliche  Kotiigliche,  i.e.  imperial  and  royal.] 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY  407 

happened  suddenly  to  spring  up  about  senior  wranglers,  and 
what  they  had  done  in  after  life.  To  the  almost  terror  of  the 
persons  present,  Macaulay  began  with  the  senior  wrangler  of 
1801-2-3-4,  and  so  on,  giving  the  name  of  each,  and  relating 
his  subsequent  career  and  rise.  Every  man  who  has  known 
him  has  his  story  regarding  that  astonishing  memory.  It  may 
be  that  he  was  not  ill  pleased  that  you  should  recognize  it ;  but 
to  those  prodigious  intellectual  feats,  which  were  so  easy  to  him, 
who  would  grudge  his  tribute  of  homage  ?  His  talk  was,  in  a 
word,  admirable,  and  we  admired  it. 

Of  the  notices  which  have  appeared  regarding  Lord  Macaulay, 
up  to  the  day  when  the  present  lines  are  written  (the  9th  of 
January),  the  reader  should  not  .deny  himself  the  pleasure  of 
looking  especially  at  two.  It  is  a  good  sign  of  the  times  when 
such  articles  as  these  (I  mean  the  articles  in  The  Times  and 
Saturday  Revieui)  appear  in  our  public  prints  about  our  pub- 
lic men.  They  educate  us,  as  it  were,  to  admire  rightly.  An 
uninstructed  person  in  a  museum  or  at  a  concert  may  pass 
by  without  recognizing  a  picture  or  a  passage  of  music, 
which  the  connoisseur  by  his  side  may  show  him  is  a  master- 
piece of  harmony,  or  a  wonder  of  artistic  skill.  After  reading 
these  papers  you  like  and  respect  more  the  person  you  have 
admired  so  much  already.  And  so  with  regard  to  Macaulay's 
style  there  may  be  faults  of  course  —  what  critic  can't  point 
them  out  ?  But  for  the  nonce  we  are  not  talking  about  faults  : 
we  want  to  say  nil  nisi  bonum}  Well  —  take  at  hazard  any  three 
pages  of  the  Essays  or  History ;  —  and,  glimmering  below  the 
stream  of  the  narrative,  as  it  were,  you,  an  average  reader,  see 
one,  two,  three,  a  half-score  of  allusions  to  other  historic  facts, 
characters,  literature,  poetry,  with  which  you  are  acquainted. 
Why  is  this  epithet  used  ?  Whence  is  that  simile  drawn  ?  How 
does  he  manage,  in  two  or  three  words,  to  paint  an  individual, 
or  to  indicate  a  landscape  ?  Your  neighbour,  who  has  his  read- 
ing, and  his  little  stock  of  literature  stowed  away  in  his  mind, 
shall  detect  more  points,  allusions,  happy  touches,  indicating  not 
only  the  prodigious  memory  and  vast  learning  of  this  master,  but 
the  wonderful  industry,  the  honest,  humble  previous  toil  of  this 

1  [Nothing  but  good.] 


408  NIL  NISI  BONUM 

great  scholar.     He  reads  twenty  books  to  write  a  sentence ;  he 
travels  a  hundred  miles  to  make  a  line  of  description. 

Many  Londoners  —  not  all  —  have  seen  the  British  Museum 
Library.     I  speak  a  cceur  ouvert}  and  pray  the  kindly  reader  to 
bear  with  me.     I  have  seen  all  sorts  of  domes  of  Peters  and 
Pauls,  Sophia,  Pantheon,  —  whatnot?  —  and  have  been  struck 
by  none  of  them  so  much  as  by  that  catholic  dome  in  Blooms- 
bury,  under  which  our  million  volumes  are  housed.    What  peace, 
what  love,  what  truth,  what  beauty,  what  happiness  for  all,  what 
generous  kindness  for  you  and  me,  are  here  spread  out !     It 
seems  to  me  one  cannot  sit  down  in  that  place  without  a  heart 
full  of  grateful  reverence.     I  own  to  have  said  my  grace  at  the 
table,  and  to  have  thanked  heaven  for  this  my  English  birth- 
right, freely  to  partake  of  these  bountiful  books,  and  to  speak 
the  truth  I  find  there.     Under  the  dome  which  held  Macaulay's 
brain,  and  from  which  his  solemn  eyes  looked  out  on  the  world 
but  a  fortnight  since,  what  a  vast,  brilliant,  and  wonderful  store 
of  learning  was  ranged  !  what  strange  lore  would  he  not  fetch 
for  you  at  your  bidding !     A  volume  of  law,  or  history,  a  book  of 
poetry  familiar  or  forgotten  (except  by  himself  who  forgot  noth- 
ing), a  novel  ever  so  old,  and  he  had  it  at  hand.     I  spoke  to  him 
once  about  Clarissa.     "  Not  read  Clarissa  .^"  he  cried  out.     "  If 
you  have  once  thoroughly  entered  on  Clarissa  and  are  infected 
by  it,  you  can't  leave  it.     When  I  was  in  India  I  passed  one  hot 
season  at  the  hills,  and  there  were  the  Governor-General,  and 
the  Secretary  of  Government,  and  the  Commander-in-Chief,  and 
their  wives.     I  had  Clarissa  with  me  :  and,  as  soon  as  they  be- 
gan to  read,  the  whole  station  was  in  a  passion  of  excitement 
about  Miss  Harlowe  and  her. misfortunes,  and  her  scoundrelly 
Lovelace  !     The  Governor's  wife  seized  the  book,  and  the  Sec- 
retary waited  for  it,  and  the  Chief  Justice  could  not  read  it  for 
tears  !  "     He  acted  the  whole  scene  :  he  paced  up  and  down  the 
"  Athenaeum  "  library :  I  dare  say  he  could  have  spoken  pages 
of  the  book  —  of  that  book,  and  of  what  countless  piles  of  others  ! 
In  this  little  paper  let  us  keep  to  the  text  of  nil  nisi  bonum. 
One  paper  I  have  read  regarding  Lord  Macaulay  says  "  he  had 
no  heart."     Why,  a  man's  books   may  not  always  speak  the 

1  [With  an  open  heart.] 


WILLI  A  AI  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY  409 

truth,  but  they  speak  his  mind  in  spite  of  himself:  and  it  seems 
to  me  this  man's  heart  is  beating  through  every  page  he  penned. 
He  is  always  in  a  storm  of  revolt  and  indignation  against  wrong, 
craft,  tyranny.  How  he  cheers  heroic  resistance  ;  how  he  backs 
and  applauds  freedom  struggling  for  its  own ;  how  he  hates 
scoundrels,  ever  so  victorious  and  successful ;  how  he  recognizes 
genius,  though  selfish  villains  possess  it!  The  critic  who  says 
Macaulay  had  no  heart,  might  say  that  Johnson  had  none :  and 
two  men  more  generous,  and  more  loving,  and  more  hating,  and 
more  partial,  and  more  noble,  do  not  live  in  our  history.  Those 
who  knew  Lord  Macaulay  knew  how  admirably  tender  and  gen- 
erous,^ and  affectionate  he  was.  It  was  not  his  business  to  bring, 
his  family  before  the  theatre  footlights,  and  call  for  bouquets 
from  the  gallery  as  he  wept  over  them. 

If  any  young  man  of  letters  reads  this  little  sermon  —  and  to 
him,  indeed,  it  is  addressed  —  I  would  say  to  him,  "  Bear  Scott's 
words  in  your  mind,  and  '  be  good,  my  dear.^  "  Here  are  two 
literary  men  gone  to  their  account,  and,  la  us  Deo,-  as  far  as  we 
know,  it  is  fair,  and  open,  and  clean.  Here  is  no  need  of  apolo- 
gies for  shortcomings,  or  explanations  of  vices  which  would  have 
been  virtues  but  for  unavoidable  &c.  Here  are  two  examples 
of  men  most  differently  gifted  :  each  pursuing  his  calling ;  each 
speaking  his  truth  as  God  bade  him  ;  each  honest  in  his  life  ; 
just  and  irreproachable  in  his  dealings  ;  dear  to  his  friends  ; 
honoured  by  his  country  ;  beloved  at  his  fireside.  It  has  been 
the  fortunate  lot  of  both  to  give  incalculable  happiness  and  de- 
light to  the  world,  which  thanks  them  in  return  with  an  immense 
kindliness,  respect,  affection.  It  may  not  be  our  chance,  brother 
scribe,  to  be  endowed  with  such  merit,  or  rewarded  with  such 
fame.  But  the  rewards  of  these  men  are  rewards  paid  to  our 
service.  We  may  not  win  the  baton  or  epaulettes  ;  but  God  give 
us  strength  to  guard  the  honour  of  the  flag ! 

1  Since  the  above  was  written,  I  have  been  informed  that  it  has  been  found,  on 
examining  Lord  Macaulay's  papers,  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  giving  away  more 
than  a  fourth  part  of  his  annual  income. 

2  [Praise  God.] 


410  THE  HERO  AS  POET 

THE    HERO   AS    POET 

THOMAS   CARLYLE 

[From  Lecture  3,  in   On  Heroes,  Hero-  Worship  and  the  Heroic  in  History^ 

1841.] 

The  Hero  as  Divinity,  the  Hero  as  Prophet,  are  productions 
of  old  ages  ;  not  to  be  repeated  in  the  new.  They  presuppose  a 
certain  rudeness  of  conception,  which  the  progress  of  mere 
scientific  knowledge  puts  an  end  to.  There  needs  to  be,  as  it 
were,  a  world  vacant,  or  almost  vacant  of  scientific  forms,  if  men 
in  their  loving  wonder  are  to  fancy  their  fellow-man  either  a  god 
or  one  speaking  with  the  voice  of  a  god.  Divinity  and  Prophet 
are  past.  We  are  now  to  see  our  Hero  in  the  less  ambitious, 
but  also  less  questionable,  character  of  Poet ;  a  character  which 
does  not  pass.  The  Poet  is  a  heroic  figure  belonging  to.  all 
ages  ;  whom  all  ages  possess,  when  once  he  is  produced,  whom 
the  newest  age  as  the  oldest  may  produce  ;  —  and  will  produce, 
always  when  Nature  pleases.  Let  Nature  send  a  Hero-soul ;  in 
no  age  is  it  other  than  possible  that  he  may  be  shaped  into  a  Poet. 

Hero,  Prophet,  Poet,  —  many  different  names,  in  different 
times  and  places,  do  we  give  to  Great  Men  ;  according  to  vari- 
eties we  note  in  them,  according  to  the  sphere  in  which  they 
have  displayed  themselves  !  We  might  give  many  more  names, 
on  this  same  principle.  I  will  remark  again,  however,  as  a  fact 
not  unimportant  to  be  understood,  that  the  different  sphere  con- 
stitutes the  grand  origin  of  such  distinction  ;  that  the  Hero  can 
be  Poet,  Prophet,  King,  Priest  or  what  you  will,  according  to 
the  kind  of  world  he  finds  himself  born  into.  I  confess,  I  have 
no  notion  of  a  truly  great  man  that  could  not  be  all  sorts  of 
men.  The  Poet  who  could  merely  sit  on  a  chair,  and  compose 
stanzas,  would  never  make  a  stanza  worth  much.  He  could  not 
sing  the  Heroic  warrior,  unless  he  himself  were  at  least  a  Heroic 
warrior  too.  I  fancy  there  is  in  him  the  Politician,  the  Thinker, 
Legislator,  Philosopher ;  —  in  one  or  the  other  degree,  he  could 
have  been,  he  is  all  these.  So  too  I  cannot  understand  how  a 
Mirabeau,  with  that  great  glowing  heart,  with  the  fire  that  was 


THOMAS   CARLYLE  4I I 

in  it,  with  the  bursting  tears  that  were  in  it,  could  not  have 
written  verses,  tragedies,  poems,  and  touched  all  hearts  in  that 
way,  had  his  course  of  life  and  education  led  him  thitherward. 
The  grand  fundamental  character  is  that  of  Great  Man  ;  that 
the  man  be  great.  Napoleon  has  words  in  him  which  are  like 
Austerlitz  Battles.  Louis  Fourteenth's  Marshals  are  a  kind  of 
poetical  men  withal ;  the  things  Turenne  says  are  full  of  sagacity 
and  geniality,  like  sayings  of  Samuel  Johnson.  The  great  heart, 
the  clear  deep-seeing  eye  :  there  it  lies  ;  no  man  whatever,  in 
what  province  soever,  can  prosper  at  all  without  these.  Petrarch 
and  Boccaccio  did  diplomatic  messages,  it  seems,  quite  well : 
one  can  easily  believe  it ;  they  had  done  things  a  little  harder 
than  these !  Burns,  a  gifted  song-writer,  might  have  made  a 
still  better  Mirabeau.  Shakspeare,  —  one  knows  not  what  he 
could  not  have  made,  in  the  supreme  degree. 

True,  there  are  aptitudes  of  Nature  too.  Nature  does  not 
make  all  great  men,  more  than  all  other  men,  in  the  self-same 
mould.  Varieties  of  aptitude  doubtless  ;  but  infinitely  more  of 
circumstance  ;  and  far  oftenest  it  is  the  latter  only  that  are  looked 
to.  But  it  is  as  with  common  men  in  the  learning  of  trades. 
You  take  any  man,  as  yet  a  vague  capability  of  a  man,  who 
could  be  any  kind  of  craftsman  ;  and  make  him  into  a  smith,  a 
carpenter,  a  mason  :  he  is  then  and  thenceforth  that  and  nothing 
else.  And  if,  as  Addison  complains,  you  sometimes  see  a  street- 
porter  staggering  under  his  load  on  spindle-shanks,  and  near  at 
hand  a  tailor  with  the  frame  of  a  Samson  handling  a  bit  of  cloth 
and  small  Whitechapel  needle,  —  it  cannot  be  considered  that 
aptitude  of  Nature  alone  has  been  consulted  here  either  !  — The 
Great  Man  also,  to  what  shall  he  be  bound  apprentice  ?  Given 
your  Hero,  is  he  to  become  Conqueror,  King,  Philosopher, 
Poet  ?  It  is  an  inexplicably  complex  controversial-calculation 
between  the  world  and  him  !  He  will  read  the  world  and  its 
laws  ;  the  world  with  its  laws  will  be  there  to  be  read.  What 
the  world,  on  this  matter,  shall  permit  and  bid  is,  as  we  said, 
the  most  important  fact  about  the  world.  — 

Poet  and  Prophet  differ  greatly  in  our  loose  modern  notions 
of  them.     In  some  old  languages,  again,  the  titles  are  synony- 


412  THE  HERO  AS  POET 

mous  ;  Vates  means  both  Prophet  and  Poet :  and  indeed  at  all 
times,  Prophet  and  Poet,  well  miderstood,  have  much  kindred 
of  meaning.  Fundamentally  indeed  they  are  still  the  same  ;  in 
this  most  important  respect  especially,  That  they  have  pene- 
trated both  of  them  into  the  sacred  mystery  of  the  Universe  ;  what 
Goethe  calls  "  the  open  secret."  "  Which  is  the  great  secret?  " 
asks  one.  —  "The  open  secret,"  —  open  to  all,  seen  by  almost 
none  !  That  divine  mystery,  which  lies  everywhere  in  all  Beings, 
"  the  Divine  Idea  of  the  World,  that  which  lies  at  the  bottom  of 
Appearance,"  as  Fichte  styles  it ;  of  which  all  Appearance,  from 
the  starry  sky  to  the  grass  of  the  field,  but  especially  the  Appear- 
ance of  Man  and  his  work,  is  but  the  vesture,  the  embodiment 
that  renders  it  visible.  This  divine  mystery  is  in  all  times  and 
in  all  places ;  veritably  is.  In  most  times  and  places  it  is 
greatly  overlooked  ;  and  the  Universe,  definable  always  in  one 
or  the  other  dialect,  as  the  realised  Thought  of  God,  is  con- 
sidered a  trivial,  inert,  commonplace  matter,  —  as  if,  says  the 
Satirist,  it  were  a  dead  thing,  which  some  upholsterer  had  put 
together !  It  could  do  no  good,  at  present,  to  speak  much  about 
this  ;  but  it  is  a  pity  for  every  one  of  us  if  we  do  not  know  it, 
live  ever  in  the  knowledge  of  it.  Really  a  most  mournful  pity ; 
—  a  failure  to  live  at  all,  if  we  live  otherwise  ! 

But  now,  I  say,  whoever  may  forget  this  divine  mystery,  the 
Vates,  whether  Prophet  or  Poet,  has  penetrated  into  it ;  is  a 
man  sent  hither  to  make  it  more  impressively  known  to  us. 
That  always  is  his  message  ;  he  is  to  reveal  that  to  us,  —  that 
sacred  mystery  which  he  more  than  others  lives  ever  present 
with.  While  others  forget  it,  he  knows  it ;  —  I  might  say,  he 
has  been  driven  to  know  it ;  without  consent  asked  of  him,  he 
finds  himself  living  in  it,  bound  to  live  in  it.  Once  more,  here 
is  no  Hearsay,  but  a  direct  Insight  and  Belief;  this  man  too 
could  not  help  being  a  sincere  man  !  Whosoever  may  live  in 
the  show  of  things,  it  is  for  him  a  necessity  of  nature  to  live  in 
the  very  fact  of  things.  A  man  once  more,  in  earnest  with  the 
Universe,  though  all  others  were  but  toying  with  it.  He  is  a 
Vates,  first  of  all,  in  virtue  of  being  sincere.  So  far  Poet  and 
Prophet,  participators  in  the  ''  open  secret,"  are  one. 

With  respect  to  their  distinction  again  :  The  Vates  Prophet, 


THOMAS   CARLYLE 


413 


we  might  say,  has  seized  that  sacred  mystery  rather  on  the 
moral  side,  as  Good  and  Evil,  Duty  and  Prohibition ;  the  Vates 
Poet  on  what  the  Germans  call  the  aesthetic  side,  as  Beautiful, 
and  the  like.  The  one  we  may  call  a  revealer  of  what  we  are 
to  do,  the  other  of  what  we  are  to  love.  But  indeed  these  two 
provinces  run  into  one  another,  and  cannot  be  disjoined.  The 
Prophet  too  has  his  eye  on  what  we  are  to  love  :  how  else  shall 
he  know  what  it  is  we  are  to  do  ?  The  highest  Voice  ever  heard 
on  this  earth  said  withal,  "  Consider-  the  lilies  of  the  field  ;  they 
toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin :  yet  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was 
not  arrayed  like  one  of  these."  A  glance,  that,  into  the  deepest 
deep  of  Beauty.  "  The  lilies  of  the  field,"  —  dressed  finer  than 
earthly  princes,  springing-up  there  in  the  humble  furrow-field  ; 
a  beautiful  eye  looking-out  on  you,  from  the  great  inner  Sea  of 
Beauty !  How  could  the  rude  Earth  make  these,  if  her  Essence, 
rugged  as  she  looks  and  is,  were  not  inwardly  Beauty  ?  In  this 
point  of  view,  too,  a  saying  of  Goethe's,  which  has  staggered 
several,  may  have  meaning:  "  The  Beautiful,"  he  intimates,  "  is 
higher  than  the  Good  :  the  Beautiful  includes  in  it  the  Good." 
The  true  Beautiful ;  which  however,  I  have  said  somewhere, 
"  differs  from  the  false  as  Heaven  does  from  Vauxhall !  "  So 
much  for  the  distinction  and  identity  of  Poet  and  Prophet.  — • 

In  ancient  and  also  in  modern  perii)ds  we  find  a  few  Poets 
who  are  accounted  perfect ;  whom  it  were  a  kind  of  treason  to 
find  fault  with.  This  is  noteworthy ;  this  is  right :  yet  in  strict- 
ness it  is  only  an  illusion.  At  bottom,  clearly  enough,  there  is 
no  perfect  Poet !  A  vein  of  Poetry  exists  in  the  hearts  of  all 
men ;  no  man  is  made  altogether  of  Poetry.  We  are  all  poets 
when  we  read  a  poem  well.  The  "  imagination  that  shudders 
at  the  Hell  of  Dante,"  is  not  that  the  same  faculty,  weaker  in 
degree,  as  Dante's  own  ?  No  one  but  Shakspeare  can  embody, 
out  of  Saxo  Gram77iaticus ,  the  story  of  Hamlet  as  Shakspeare 
did  :  but  every  one  models  some  kind  of  story  out  of  it ;  every 
one  embodies  it  better  or  worse.  We  need  not  spend  time  in 
defining.  Where  there  is  no  specific  difference,  as  between 
round  and  square,  all  definition  must  be  more  or  less  arbitrary. 
A  man  that  has  so  much  more  of  the  poetic  element  developed 
in  him  as  to  have  become  noticeable,  will  be  called  Poet  by  his 


414  THE  HERO  AS  PO.ET 

neighbours.  World-Poets  too,  those  whom  we  are  to  take  for 
perfect  Poets,  are  settled  by  critics  in  the  same  way.  One  who 
rises  so  far  above  the  general  level  of  Poets  will,  to  such  and 
such  critics,  seem  a  Universal  Poet ;  as  he  ought  to  do.  And 
yet  it  is,  and  must  be,  an  arbitrary  distinction.  All  Poets,  all 
men,  have  some  touches  of  the  Universal ;  no  man  is  wholly 
made  of  that.  Most  Poets  are  very  soon  forgotten  :  but  not  the 
noblest  Shakspeare  or  Homer  of  them  can  be  remembered  for- 
ever;—  a  day  comes  when  he  too  is  not ! 

Nevertheless,  you  will  say,  there  must  be  a  difference  between 
true  Poetry  and  true  Speech  not  poetical :  what  is  the  difference  ? 
On  this  point  many  things  have  been  written,  especially  by  late 
German  Critics,  some  of  which  are  not  very  intelligible  at  first. 
They  say,  for  example,  that  the  Poet  has  an  iiifitiittide  in  him ; 
communicates  an  Unejidlichkeit ,  a  certain  character  of  "  infini- 
tude," to  whatsoever  he  delineates.  This,  though  not  very  pre- 
cise, yet  on  so  vague  a  matter  is  worth  remembering :  if  well 
meditated,  some  meaning  will  gradually  be  found  in  it.  For  my 
own  part,  I  find  considerable  meaning  in  the  old  vulgar  distinc- 
tion of  Poetry  being  metrical,  having  music  in  it,  being  a  Song. 
Truly,  if  pressed  to  give  a  definition,  one  might  say  this  as  soon 
as  anything  else  :  If  your  delineation  be  authentically  musical, 
musical,  not  in  word  only,  but  in  heart  and  substance,  in  all  the 
thoughts  and  utterances  of  it,  in  the  whole  conception  of  it,  then  it 
will  be  poetical ;  if  not,  not.  —  Musical :  how  much  lies  in  that ! 
A  zwwj'zm/ thought  is  one  spoken  by  a  mind  that  has  penetrated' 
into  the  inmost  heart  of  the  thing ;  detected  the  inmost  mystery 
of  it,  namely  the  melody  that  lies  hidden  in  it ;  the  inward  har- 
mony of  coherence  which  is  its  soul,  whereby  it  exists,  and  has 
a  right  to  be,  here  in  this  world.  All  inmost  things,  we  may  say, 
are  melodious  ;  naturally  utter  themselves  in  Song.  The  mean- 
ing of  Song  goes  deep.  Who  is  there  that,  in  logical  words, 
can  express  the  effect  music  has  on  us  ?  A  kind  of  inarticulate 
unfathomable  speech,  which  leads  us  to  the  edge  of  the  Infinite, 
and  lets  us  for  moments  gaze  into  that ! 

Nay  all  speech,  even  the  commonest  speech,  has  something  of 
song  in  it:  not  a  parish  in  the  world  but  has  its  parish-accent ; 
—  the  rhythm  or  tune  to  which  the  people  there  sing  what  they 


THOMAS   CARLYLE  415 

have  to  say  !  Accent  is  a  kind  of  chanting ;  all  men  have 
accent  of  their  own,  —  though  they  only  notice  that  of  others. 
Observe  too  how  all  passionate  language  does  of  itself  become 
musical,  —  with  a  finer  music  than  the  mere  accent ;  the  speech 
of  a  map  even  in  zealous  anger  becomes  a  chant,  a  song.  All 
deep  things  are  Song.  It  seems  somehow  the  very  central 
essence  of  us.  Song ;  as  if  all  the  rest  were  but  wrappages  and 
hulls !  The  primal  element  of  us  ;  of  us,  and  of  all  things. 
The  Greeks  fabled  of  Sphere-Harmonies  ;  it  was  the  feeling 
they  had  of  the  inner  structure  of  Nature ;  that  the  soul  of  all 
her  voices  and  utterances  was  perfect  music.  Poetry,  therefore, 
we  will  call  musical  Thought.  The  Poet  is  he  who  thinks  in  that 
manner.  At  bottom,  it  turns  still  on  power  of  intellect;  it  is  a 
man's  sincerity  and  depth  of  vision  that  makes  him  a  Poet. 
See  deep  enough,  and  you  see  musically  ;  the  heart  of  Nature 
being  everywhere  music,  if  you  can  only  reach  it. 

The  Vates  Poet,  with  his  melodious  Apocalypse  of  Nature, 
seems  to  hold  a  poor  rank  among  us,  in  comparison  with  the 
Vates  Prophet ;  his  function,  and  our  esteem  of  him  for  his 
function,  alike  slight.  The  Hero  taken  as  Divinity ;  the  Hero 
taken  as  Prophet ;  then  next  the  Hero  taken  only  as  Poet :  does 
it  not  look  as  if  our  estimate  of  the  Great  Man,  epoch  after 
epoch,  were  continually  diminishing  ?  We  take  him  first  for  a 
god,  then  for  one  god-inspired  ;  and  now  in  the  next  stage  of  it, 
his  most  miraculous  word  gains  from  us  only  the  recognition 
that  he  is  a  Poet,  beautiful-  verse-maker,  man  of  genius,  or  such- 
like !  —  It  looks  so ;  but  I  persuade  myself  that  intrinsically  it 
is  not  so.  If  we  consider  well,  it  will  perhaps  appear  that  in 
man  still  there  is  the  sa7ne  altogether  peculiar  admiration  for  the 
Heroic  Gift,  by  what  name  soever  called,  that  there  at  any  time 
was. 

I  should  say,  if  we  do  not  now  reckon  a  Great  Man  literally 
divine,  it  is  that  our  notions  of  God,  of  the  supreme  unattain- 
able Fountain  of  Splendour,  Wisdom  and  Heroism,  are  ever 
rising  higher;  not  altogether  that  our  reverence  for  these 
qualities,  as  manifested  in  our  like,  is  getting  lower.  This  is 
worth  taking  thought  of.  Sceptical  Dilettantism,  the  curse  of 
these  ages,  a  curse  which  will  not  last  forever,  does  indeed  in 


41 6  THE  HERO  AS  POET 

this  the  highest  province  of  human  things,  as  in  all  provinces, 
make  sad  work ;  and'  our  reverence  for  great  men,  all  crippled, 
blinded,  paralytic  as  it  is,  comes-out  in  poor  plight,  hardly 
recognisable.  Men  worship  the  shows  of  great  men  ;  the  most 
disbeheve  that  there  is  any  reality  of  great  men  to  worship. 
The  dreariest,  fatalest  faith  ;  believing  which,  one  would  literally 
despair  of  human  things.  Nevertheless  look,  for  example,  at 
Napoleon  !  A  Corsican  lieutenant  of  artillery  ;  that  is  the  show 
of  him :  yet  is  he  not  obeyed,  worshipped  after  his  sort,  as  all 
the  Tiaraed  and  Diademed  of  the  world  put  together  could  not 
be?  High  Duchesses,  and  ostlers  of  inns,  gather  round  the 
Scottish  rustic.  Burns  ;  —  a  strange  feeling  dwelling  in  each  that 
they  had  never  heard  a  man  like  this  ;  that,  on  the  whole,  this 
is  the  man  !  In  the  secret  heart  of  these  people  it  still  dimly 
reveals  itself,  though  there  is  no  accredited  way  of  uttering  it  at 
present,  that  this  rustic,  with  his  black  brows  and  flashing  sun- 
eyes,  and  strange  words  moving  laughter  and  tears,  is  of  a 
dignity  far  beyond  all  others,  incommensurable  with  all  others. 
Do  not  we  feel  it  so  ?  But  now,  were  Dilettantism,  Scepticism, 
Triviality,  and  all  that  sorrowful  brood,  cast-out  of  us,  —  as,  by 
God's  blessing,  they  shall  one  day  be  ;  were  faith  in  the  shows 
of  things  entirely  swept-out,  replaced  by  clear  faith  in  the  thi7igs, 
so  that  a  man  acted  on  the  impulse  of  that  only,  and  counted 
the  other  non-extant ;  what  a  new  hvelier  feeling  towards  this 
Burns  were  it ! 

Nay  here  in  these  pages,  such  as  they  are,  have  we  not  two 
mere  Poets,  if  not  deified,  yet  we  may  say  beatified  ?  Shaks- 
peare  and  Dante  are  Saints  of  Poetry ;  really,  if  we  will  think  of 
it,  canonised,  so  that  it  is  impiety  to  meddle  with  them.  The  un- 
guided  instinct  of  the  world,  working  across  all  these  perverse 
impediments,  has  arrived  at  such  result.  Dante  and  Shakspeare 
are  a  peculiar  Two.  They  dwell  apart,  in  a  kind  of  royal  soli- 
tude ;  none  equal,  none  second  to  them :  in  the  general  feeling 
of  the  world,  a  certain  transcendentalism,  a  glory  as  of  complete 
perfection,  invests  these  two.  They  are  canonised,  though  no 
Pope  or  Cardinals  took  hand  in  doing  it !  Such,  in  spite  of 
every  perverting  influence,  in  the  most  unheroic  times,  is  still 
our  indestructible  reverence  for  heroism.  —  We  will  look  a  little 


Thomas  carlyle  417 

at  these  Two,  the  Poet  Dante  and  the  Poet  Shakspeare  :  what 
little  it  is  permitted  us  to  say  here  of  the  Hero  as  Poet  will 
most  fitly  arrange  itself  in  that  fashion. 

Many  volumes  have  been  written  by  way  of  commentary  on 
Dante  and  his  Book ;  yet,  on  the  whole,  with  no  great  result. 
His  Biography  is,  as  it  were,  irrecoverably  lost  for  us.  An  un- 
important, wandering,  sorrowstricken  man,  not  much  note  was 
taken  of  him  while  he  lived  ;  and  the  most  of  that  has  vanished, 
in  the  long  space  that  now  intervenes.  It  is  five  centuries  since 
he  ceased  writing  and  living  here.  After  all  commentaries,  the 
Book  itself  is  mainly  what  we  know  of  him.  The  Book  ;  —  and 
one  might  add  that  Portrait  -commonly  attributed  to  Giotto, 
which,  looking  on  it,  you  cannot  help  inclining  to  think  genuine, 
whoever  did  it.  To  me  it  is  a  most  touching  face  ;  perhaps  of 
all  faces  that  I  know,  the  most  so.  Lonely  there,  painted  as  on 
vacancy,  with  the  simple  laurel  wound  round  it ;  the  deathless 
sorrow  and  pain,  the  known  victory  which  is  also  deathless;  — 
significant  of  the  whole  history  of  Dante !  I  think  it  is  the 
mournfulest  face  that  ever  was  painted  from  reality ;  an  alto- 
gether tragic,  heart-affecting  face.  There  is  in  it,  as  foundation 
of  it,  the  softness,  tenderness,  gentle  affection  as  of  a  child  ;  but 
all  this  is  as  if  congealed  into  sharp  contradiction,  into  abnega- 
tion, isolation,  proud  hopeless  pain.  A  soft  ethereal  soul  looking- 
out  so  stern,  implacable,  grim-trenchant,  as  from  imprisonment 
of  thick-ribbed  ice  !  Withal  it  is  a  silent  pain  too,  a  silent  scorn- 
ful one :  the  lip  is  curled  in  a  kind  of  godlike  disdain  of  the 
thing  that  is  eating-out  his  heart,  —  as  if  it  were  withal  a  mean 
insignificant  thing,  as  if  he  whom  it  had  power  to  torture  and 
strangle  were  greater  than  it.  The  face  of  one  wholly  in  pro- 
test, and  life-long  unsurrendering  battle,  against  the  world. 
Affection  all  converted  into  indignation  :  an  implacable  indigna- 
tion ;  slow,  equable,  silent,  like  that  of  a  god  !  The  eye  too,  it 
looks-out  as  in  a  kind  of  stirprise,  a  kind  of  inquiry.  Why  the 
world  was  of  such  a  sort  ?  This  is  Dante  :  so  he  looks,  this 
"  voice  of  ten  silent  centuries,"  and  sings  us  "  his  mystic  un- 
fathomable song." 

The  little  that  we  know  of  Dante's  Life  corresponds  well 

2E 


4l8  THE  HERO  AS  POET 

enough  with  this  Portrait  and  this  Book,  He  was  born  at 
Florence,  in  the  upper  class  of  society,  in  the  year  1265.  His 
education  was  the  best  then  going ;  much  school-divinity,  Aris- 
totelean  logic,  some  Latin  classics,  —  no  inconsiderable  insight 
into  certain  provinces  of  things :  and  Dante,  with  his  earnest 
intelligent  nature,  we  need  not  doubt,  learned  better  than  most 
all  that  was  learnable.  He  has  a  clear  cultivated  understanding, 
and  of  great  subtlety ;  the  best  fruit  of  education  he  had  con- 
trived to  realise  from  these  scholastics.  He  knows  accurately 
and  well  what  lies  close  to  him  ;  but,  in  such  a  time,  without 
printed  books  or  free  intercourse,  he  could  not  know  well  what 
was  distant :  the  small  clear  light,  most  luminous  for  what  is 
near,  breaks  itself  into  singular*  chiaroscu?-o  striking  on  what  is 
far  off.  This  was  Dante's  learning  from  the  schools.  In  life, 
he  had  gone  through  the  usual  destinies  ;  been  twice  out  cam- 
paigning as  a  soldier  for  the  Florentine  State,  been  on  embassy  ; 
had  in  his  thirty-fifth  year,  by  natural  gradation  of  talent  and 
Service,  become  one  of  the  Chief  Magistrates  of  Florence.  He 
had  met  in  boyhood  a  certain  Beatrice  Portinari,  a  beautiful 
little  girl  of  his  own  age  and  rank,  and  grown-up  thenceforth  in 
partial  sight  of  her,  in  some  distant  intercourse  with  her.  All 
readers  know  his  graceful  affecting  account  of  this ;  and  then  of 
their  being  parted  ;  of  her  being  wedded  to  another,  and  of  her 
death  soon  after.  She  makes  a  great  figure  in  Dante's  Poem  ; 
seems  to  have  made  a  great  figure  in  his  life.  Of  all  beings  it 
might  seem  as  if  she,  held  apart  from  him,  far  apart  at  last  in 
the  dim  Eternity,  were  the  only  one  he  had  ever  with  his  whole 
strength  of  affection  loved.  She  died :  Dante  himself  was 
wedded  ;  but  it  seems  not  happily,  far  from  happily.  I  fancy, 
the  rigorous  earnest  man,  with  his  keen  excitabili-ties,  was  not 
altogether  easy  to  make  happy. 

We  will  not  complain  of  Dante's  miseries  :  had  all  gone  right 
with  him  as  he  wished  it,  he  might  have  been  Prior,  Podesta,  or 
whatsoever  they  call  it,  of  Florence,  well  accepted  among  neigh- 
bours,—  and  the  world  had  wanted  one  of  the  most  notable 
words  ever  spoken  or  sung.  Florence  would  have  had  another 
prosperous  Lord  Mayor ;  and  the  ten  dumb  centuries  continued 
voiceless,  and  the  ten  other  listening  centuries  (for  there  will  be 


THOMAS   CARLYLE  419 

ten  of  them  and  more)  had  no  Divina  Commedia  to  hear!  We 
will  complain  of  nothing.  A  nobler  destiny  was  appointed  for 
this  Dante ;  and  he,  struggling  like  a  man  led  towards  death 
and  crucifixion,  could  not  help  fulfilling  it.  Give  him  the  choice 
of  his  happiness  !  He  knew  not,  more  than  we  do,  what  was 
really  happy,  what  was  really  miserable. 

In  Dante's  Priorship,  the  Guelf-Ghibelline,  Bianchi-Neri,  or 
some  other  confused  disturbances  rose  to  such  a  height,  that 
Dante,  whose  party  had  seemed  the  stronger,  was  with  his 
friends  cast  unexpectedly  forth  into  banishment ;  doomed  thence- 
forth to  a  life  of  woe  and  wandering.  His  property  was  all 
confiscated  and  more  ;  he  had  the  fiercest  feeling  that  it  was 
entirely  unjust,  nefarious  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man.  He 
tried  what  was  in  him  to  get  reinstated  ;  tried  even  by  warlike 
surprisal,  with  arms  in  his  hand  :  but  it  would  not  do  ;  bad  only 
had  become  worse.  There  is  a  record,  I  believe,  still  extant  in 
the  Florence  Archives,  dooming  this  Dante,  wheresoever  caught, 
to  be  burnt  alive.  Burnt  alive  ;  so  it  stands,  they  say :  a  very 
curious  civic  document.  Another  curious  document,  some  con- 
siderable number  of  years  later,  is  a  Letter  of  Dante's  to  the 
Florentine  Magistrates,  written  in  answer  to  a  milder  proposal 
of  theirs,  that  he  should  return  on  condition  of  apologising  and 
paying  a  fine.  He  answers,  with  fixed  stern  pride  :  "  If  I  cannot 
return  without  calling  myself  guilty,  I  will  never  return,  fiunqiiam 
revertary 

For  Dante  there  was  now  no  home  in  this  world.  He  wan- 
dered from  patron  to  patron,  from  place  to  place  ;  proving  in 
his  own  bitter  words,  "  How  hard  is  the  path,  Cot?ie  e  duro  calk.'''' 
The  wretched  are  not  cheerful  company.  Dante,  poor  and 
banished,  with  his  proud  earnest  nature,  with  his  moody  hu- 
mours, was  not  a  man  to  conciliate  men.  Petrarch  reports  of 
him  that  being  at  Can  della  Scala's  court,  and  blamed  one  day 
for  his  gloom  and  taciturnity,  he  answered  in  no  courtier-like 
way.  Della  Scala  stood  among  his  courtiers,  with  mimes  and 
buffoons  {iiebulones  ac  histriones)  making  him  heartily  merry; 
when  turning  to  Dante,  he  said  :  "  Is  it  not  strange,  now,  that 
this  poor  fool  should  make  himself  so  entertaining ;  while  you, 
a  wise  man,  sit  there  day  after  day,  and  have  nothing  to  amuse 


420  THE  HERO  AS  POET 

US  with  at  all  ?  "  Dante  answered  bitterly  :  "  No,  not  strange  ; 
your  Highness  is  to  recollect  the  Proverb,  Like  to  Like  ;^^  — 
given  the  amuser,  the  amusee  must  also  be  given  !  Such  a  man, 
with  his  proud  silent  ways,  with  his  sarcasms  and  sorrows,  was 
not  made  to  succeed  at  court.  By  degrees,  it  came  to  be  evi- 
dent to  him  that  he  had  no  longer  any  resting-place,  or  hope  of 
benefit,  in  this  earth.  The  earthly  world  had  cast  him  forth,  to 
wander,  wander ;  no  living  heart  to  love  him  now ;  for  his  sore 
miseries  there  was  no  solace  here. 

The  deeper  naturally  would  the  Eternal  World  impress  itself 
on  him  ;  that  awful  reality  over  which,  after  all,  this  Time-world, 
with  its  Florences  and  banishments,  only  flutters  as  an  unreal 
shadow.  Florence  thou  shalt  never  see  :  but  Hell  and  Purgatory 
and  Heaven  thou  shalt  surely  see  !  What  is  Florence,  Can  della 
Scala,  and  the  World  and  Life  altogether  ?  Eternity  :  thither, 
of  a  truth,  not  elsewhither,  art  thou,  and  all  things  bound  !  The 
great  soul  of  Dante,  homeless  on  earth,  made  its  home  more  and 
more  in  that  awful  other  world.  Naturally  his  thoughts  brooded 
on  that,  as  on  the  one  fact  important  for  him.  Bodied  or  bodi- 
less, it  is  the  one  fact  important  for  all  men  :  —  but  to  Dante,  in 
that  age,  it  was  bodied  in  fixed  certainty  of  scientific  shape  ;  he 
no  more  doubted  of  that  Malebolge  Pool,  that  it  all  lay  there  with 
its  gloomy  circles,  with  its  alti  guai}  and  that  he  himself  should 
see  it,  than  we  doubt  that  we  should  see  Constantinople  if  we 
went  thither.  Dante's  heart,  long  filled  with  this,  brooding  over 
it  in  speechless  thought  and  awe,  bursts  forth  at  length  into 
"mystic  unfathomable  song;"  and  this  his  Divine  Comedy,  the 
most  remarkable  of  all  modern  Books,  is  the  result. 

It  must  have  been  a  great  solacement  to  Dante,  and  was,  as 
we  can  see,  a  proud  thought  for  him  at  times.  That  he,  here  in 
exile,  could  do  this  work  ;  that  no  Florence,  nor  no  man  or  men, 
could  hinder  him  from  doing  it,  or  even  much  help  him  in  doing 
it.  He  knew^  too,  partly,  that  it  was  great ;  the  greatest  a  man 
could  do.  "  If  thou  follow  thy  star,  Se  tu  segui  tua  s  tell  a,''  —  so 
could  the  Hero,  in  his  forsakenness,  in  his  extreme  need,  still  say 
to  himself :  "  Follow  thou  thy  star,  thou  shalt  not  fail  of  a  glori- 
ous haven !  "    The  labour  of  writing,  we  find,  and  indeed  could 

1  [Deep  wailings.] 


THOMAS   CARLYLE  421 

know  otherwise,  was  great  and  painful  for  him;  he -says,  This 
Book,  "which  has  made  me  lean  for  many  years."  Ah  yes,  it 
was  won,  all  of  it,  with  pain  and  sore  toil,  —  not  in  sport,  but  in 
grim  earnest.  His  Book,  as  indeed  most  good  Books  are,  has 
been  written,  in  many  senses,  with  his  heart's  blood.  It  is  his 
whole  history,  this  Book.  He  died  after  finishing  it ;  not  yet 
very  old,  at  the  age  of  fifty-six ;  — broken-hearted  rather,  as  is 
said.  He  lies  buried  in  his  death-city  Ravenna :  Hie  claudor 
Dantes  patriis  extorris  ab  oris. '  The  Florentines  begged  back 
his  body,  in  a  century  after  ;  the  Ravenna  people  would  not 
give  it.  "  Here  am  I  Dante  laid,  shut-out  from  my  native 
shores." 

I  said,  Dante's  Poem  was  a  Song:  it  is  Tieck  who  calls  it  "  a 
mystic  unfathomable  Song ;  "  and  such  is  literally  the  character 
of  it.  Coleridge  remarks  very  pertinently  somewhere,  that  wher- 
ever you  find  a  sentence  musically  worded,  of  true  rhythm  and 
melody  in  the  words,  there  is  something  deep  and  good  in  the 
meaning  too.  For  body  and  soul,  word  and  idea,  go  strangely 
together  here  as  everywhere.  Song :  we  said  before,  it  was  the 
Heroic  of  Speech  !  All  old  Poems,  Homer's  and  the  rest,  are 
authentically' Songs.  I  would  say,  in  strictness,  that  all  right 
Poems  are ;  that  whatsoever  is  not  sung  is  properly  no  Poem, 
but  a  piece  of  Prose  cramped  into  jingling  lines,  —  to  the  great 
injury  of  the  grammar,  to  the  great  grief  of  the  reader,  for  most 
part !  What  we  want  to  get  at  is  the  thought  the  man  had,  if  he 
had  any :  why  should  he  twist  it  into  jingle,  if  he  could  speak  it 
out  plainly  ?  It  is  only  when  the  heart  of  him  is  rapt  into  true 
passion  of  melody,  and  the  very  tones  of  him,  according  to 
Coleridge's  remark,  become  musical  by  the  greatness,  depth  and 
music  of  his  thoughts,  that  M^e  can  give  him  right  to  rhyme  and 
sing;  that  we  call  him  a  Poet,  and  listen  to  him  as  the  Heroic 
of  Speakers,  —  whose  speech  is  Song.  Pretenders  to  this  are 
many ;  and  to  an  earnest  reader,  I  doubt,  it  is  for  most  part 
a  very  melancholy,  not  to  say  an  insupportable  business,  that 
of  reading  rhyme  !  Rhyme  that  had  no  inward  necessity  to  be 
rhymed;  —  it  ought  to  have  told  us  plainly,  without  any  jingle, 
what  it  was  aiming  at.  I  would  advise  all  men  who  ca?i  speak 
their  thought,  not  to  sing  it ;  to  understand  that,  in  a  serious 


422  THE  HERO  AS  POET 

time,  among  serious  men,  there  is  no  vocation  in  them  for 
singing  it.  Precisely  as  we  love  the  true  song,  and  are  charmed 
by  it  as  by  something  divine,  so  shall  we  hate  the  false  song, 
and  account  it  a  mere  wooden  noise,  a  thing  hollow,  superfluous, 
altogether  an  insincere  and  offensive  thing. 

I  give  Dante  my  highest  praise  when  I  say  of  his  Divine 
Comedy  that  it  is,  in  all  senses,  genuinely  a  Song.  In  the  very 
sound  of  it  there  is  a  canto  fermo^  it  proceeds  as  by  a  chant. 
The  language,  his  simple  tc7-za  rima^  doubtless  helped  him  in 
this.  One  reads  along  naturally  with  a  sort  of  lilt.  But  I  add 
that  it  could  not  be  otherwise ;  for  the  essence  and  material  of 
the  work  are  themselves  rhythmic.  Its  depth,  and  rapt  passion 
and  sincerity,  makes  it  musical ;  —  go  deep  enough,  there  is 
music  everywhere.  A  true  inward  symmetry,  what  one  calls  an 
architectural  harmony,  reigns  in  it,  proportionates  it  all :  archi- 
tectural ;  which  also  partakes  of  the  character  of  music.  The 
three  kingdoms,  Inferno,  Piirgatorio,  Faradiso,  look-out  on  one 
another  like  compartments  of  a  great  edifice ;  a  great  super- 
natural world-cathedral,  piled-up  there,  stern,  solemn,  awful ; 
Dante's  World  of  Souls  !  It  is,  at  bottom,  the  sincerest  of  all 
Poems ;  sincerity,  here  too,  we  find  to  be  the  measure  of  worth. 
It  came  deep  out  of  the  author's  heart  of  hearts  ;  and  it  goes 
deep,  and  through  long  generations,  into  ours.  The  people  of 
Verona,  when  they  saw  him  on  the  streets,  used  to  say,  "  Eccovi 
r  no}n  ch'  e  stato  alV  Inferno,  See,  there  is  the  man  that  was  in 
Hell !  "  Ah  yes,  he  had  been  in  Hell ;  —  in  Hell  enough,  in 
long  severe  sorrow  and  struggle  ;  as  the  like  of  him  is  pretty 
sure  to  have  been.  Commedias  that  come  out  divine  are  not 
accomplished  otherwise.  Thought,  true  labour  of  any  kind,  high- 
est virtue  itself,  is  it  not  the  daughter  of  Pain  ?  Born  as  out  of 
the  black  whirlwind  ;  —  true  effort,  in  fact,  as  of  a  captive  strug- 
gling to  free  himself :  that  is  Thought.  In  all  ways  we  are  "  to 
become  perfect  through  suffering:'  —  But,  as  I  say,  no  work 
known  to  me  is  so  elaborated  as  this  of  Dante's.  It  has  all  been 
as  if  molten,  in  the  hottest  furnace  of  his  soul.  It  had  made 
him  "  lean  "  for  many  years.     Not  the  general  whole  only  ;  every 

1  [This  is  intended  to  be  paraphrased  by  the  clause  that  follows  it.] 

2  [The  triple  scheme  of  rhyme  used  in  the  poem.] 


THOMAS   CARLYLE  423 

compartment  of  it  is  worked  out,  with  intense  earnestness,  into 
truth,  into  clear  visuality.  Each  answers  to  the  other;  each  fits 
in  its  place,  like  a  marble  stone  accurately  hewn  and  polished. 
It  is  the  soul  of  Dante,  and  in  this  the  soul  of  the  middle  ages, 
rendered  forever  rhythmically  visible  there.  No  light  task ;  a 
right  intense  one  :  but  a  task  which  is  done. 

Perhaps  one  would  say,  mtensity,  with  the  much  that  depends 
on  it,  is  the  prevailing  character  of  Dante's  genius.  Dante  does 
not  come  before  us  as  a  large  catholic  mind ;  rather  as  a  narrow 
and  even  sectarian  mind  :  it  is  partly  the  fruit  of  his  age  and 
position,  but  partly  too  of  his  own  nature.  His  greatness  has, 
in  all  senses,  concentred  itself  into  fiery  emphasis  and  depth. 
He  is  world-great  not  because  he  is  world-wide,  but  because  hd 
is  world-deep.  Through  all  objects  he  pierces  as  it  were  down 
into  the  heart  of  Being.  I  know  nothing  so  intense  as  Dante. 
Consider,  for  example,  to  begin  with  the  outermost  development 
of  his  intensity,  consider  how  he  paints.  He  has  a  great  power 
of  vision ;  seizes  the  very  type  of  a  thing ;  presents  that  and 
nothing  more.  You  remember  that  first  view  he  gets  of  the 
Hall  of  Dite  :  7'ed  pinnacle,  redhot  cone  of  iron  glowing  through 
the  dim  immensity  of  gloom  ;  —  so  vivid,  so  distinct,  visible  at 
once  and  forever !  It  is  as  an  emblem  of  the  whole  genius  of 
Dante.  There  is  a  brevity,  an  abrupt  precision  in  him  :  Tacitus 
is  not  briefer,  more  condensed  ;  and  then  in  Dante  it  seems  a 
natural  condensation,  spontaneous  to  the  man.  One  smiting 
word  ;  and  then  there  is  silence,  nothing  more  said.  His  silence 
is  more  eloquent  than  words.  It  is  strange  with  what  a  sharp 
decisive  grace  he  snatches  the  true  likeness  of  a  matter :  cuts 
into  the  matter  as  with  a  pen  of  fire.  Plutus,  the  blustering 
giant,  collapses  at  Virgil's  rebuke  ;  it  is  "  as  the  sails  sink,  the 
mast  being  suddenly  broken."  Or  that  poor  Brunetto  Latini, 
With,  th.^  cot  to  aspetto,  "face  baked,''''  parched  brown  and  lean; 
and  the  "  fiery  snow,"  that  falls  on  them  there,  a  "  fiery  snow 
without  wind,"  slow,  deliberate,  never-ending!  Or  the  lids  of 
those  Tombs  ;  square  sarcophaguses,  in  that  silent  dim-burning 
Hall,  each  with  its  Soul  in  torment;  the  lids  laid  open  there; 
they  are  to  be  shut  at  the  Day  of  Judgment,  through  Eternity. 
And  how  Farinata  rises  ;  and  how  Cavalcante  falls  —  at  hear 


424  THE  HERO  AS  POET 

ing  of  his  Son,  and  the  past  tense  ''^fue  "  !  ^  The  very  movements 
in  Dante  have  something  brief  ;  swift,  decisive,  almost  military. 
It  is  of  the  inmost  essence  of  his  genius,  this  sort  of  painting. 
The  fiery,  swift  Italian  nature  of  the  man,  so  silent,  passionate, 
with  its  quick  abrupt  movements,  its  silent  "  pale  rages,"  speaks 
itself  in  these  things. 

For  though  this  of  painting  is  one  of  the  outermost  develop- 
ments of  a  man,  it  comes  like  all  else  from  the  essential  faculty 
of  him ;  it  is  physiognomical  of  the  whole  man.  Find  a  man 
whose  words  paint  you  a  likeness,  you  have  found  a  man  worth 
something ;  mark  his  manner  of  doing  it,  as  very  characteristic 
of  him.  In  the  first  place,  he  could  not  have  discerned  the 
object  at  all,  or  seen  the  vital  type  of  it,  unless  he  had,  what  we 
may  call,  sympathised  with  it,  —  had  sympathy  in  him  to  bestow 
on  objects.  He  must  have  been  sincere  about  it  too  ;  sincere 
and  sympathetic :  a  man  without  worth  cannot  give  you  the 
likeness  of  any  object ;  he  dwells  in  vague  outwardness,  fallacy 
and  trivial  hearsay,  about  all  objects.  And  indeed  may  we  not 
say  that  intellect  altogether  expresses  itself  in  this  power  of  dis- 
cerning what  an  object  is  ?  Whatsoever  of  faculty  a  man's  mind 
may  have  will  come  out  here.  Is  it  even  of  business,  a  matter 
to  be  done  ?  The  gifted  man  is  he  who  sees  the  essential  point, 
and  leaves  all  the  rest  aside  as  surplusage  :  it  is  his  faculty  too, 
the  man  of  business's  faculty,  that  he  discern  the  true  likeness, 
not  the  false  superficial  one,  of  the  thing  he  has  got  to  work  in. 
And  how  much  of  morality  is  in  the  kind  of  insight  we  get  of 
anything ;  "  the  eye  seeing  in  all  things  what  it  brought  with  it 
the  faculty  of  seeing !  "  To  the  mean  eye  all  things  are  trivial, 
as  certainly  as  to  the  jaundiced  they  are  yellow.  Raphael,  the 
Painters  tell  us,  is  the  best  of  all  Portrait-painters  withal.  No 
most  gifted  eye  can  exhaust  the  significance  of  any  object.  In 
the  commonest  human  face  there  lies  more  than  Raphael  will 
take  away  with  him. 

Dante's  painting  is  not  graphic  only,  brief,  true,  and  of  a 
vividness  as  of  fire  in  dark  night ;  taken  on  the  wider  scale,  it 
is  everyway  noble,  and  the  outcome  of  a  great  soul.  Francesca 
and  her  Lover,  what  qualities  in  that  I     A  thing  woven  as  out 

1  [Was.] 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  425 

of  rainbows,  on  a  ground  of  eternal  black.  A  small  flute-voice 
of  infinite  wail  speaks  there,  into  our  very  heart  of  hearts.  A 
touch  of  womanhood  in  it  too;  della  bella persona,  che  tnifu  tolta;^ 
and  how,  even  in  the  Pit  of  woe,  it  is  a  solace  that  he  will  never 
part  from  her  !  Saddest  tragedy  in  these  alti  giiai.  And  the 
racking  winds,  in  that  acr  bruuo^  whirl  them  away  again,  to  wail 
forever!  —  Strange  to  think:  Dante  was  the  friend  of  this  poor 
Francesca's  father  ;  Francesca  herself  may  have  sat  upon  the 
Poet's  knee,  as  a  bright  innocent  little  child.  Infinite  pity,  yet 
also  infinite  rigour  of  law:  it  is  so  Nature  is  made;  it  is  so 
Dante  discerned  that  she  was  made.  What  a  paltry  notion  is 
that  of  his  Divine  Comedy's  being  a  poor  splenetic  impotent  ter- 
restrial libel ;  putting  those  into  Hell  whom  he  could  not  be 
avenged-upon  on  earth  !  I  suppose  if  ever  pity,  tender  as  a 
mother's,  was  in  the  heart  of  any  man,  it  was  in  Dante's.  But 
a  man  who  does  not  know  rigour  cannot  pity  either.  His  very 
pity  will  be  cowardly,  egoistic,  —  sentimentality,  or  little  better. 
I  know  not  in  the  world  an  affection  equal  to  that  of  Dante.  It 
is  a  tenderness,  a  trembling,  longing,  pitying  love :  like  the  wail 
of  ^olean  harps,  soft,  soft;  like  a  child's  young  heart;  —  and 
then  that  stern,  sore-saddened  heart !  These  longings  of  his 
towards  his  Beatrice ;  their  meeting  together  in  the  Paradiso ; 
his  gazing  in  her  pure  transfigured  eyes,  her  that  had  been  puri- 
fied by  death  so  long,  separated  from  him  so  far :  —  one  likens 
it  to  the  song  of  angels  ;  it  is  among  the  purest  utterances  of 
affection,  perhaps  the  very  purest,  that  ever  came  out  of  a  human 
soul. 

For  the  ijitense  Dante  is  intense  in  all  things  ;  he  has  got  into 
the  essence  of  all.  His  intellectual  insight  as  painter,  on  occa- 
sion too  as  reasoner,  is  but  the  result  of  all  other  sorts  of  inten- 
sity. Morally  great,  above  all,  we  must  call  him  ;  it  is  the 
beginning  of  all.  His  scorn,  his  grief  are  as  transcendent  as  his 
love;  —  as  indeed,  what  are  they  but  the  inverse  or  converse  oi 
his  love  ?  '■'■A  Die  spiacenti  ed  a'  nemici  siii,  Hateful  to  God  and 
to  the  enemies  of  God  :  "  lofty  scorn,  unappeasable  silent  repro- 
bation and  aversion  :  "  Non  ragionam  di  lor,  We  will  not  speak 

1  [The  fair  body  that  was  taken  from  me.] 

2  [Dusky  air.] 


426  THE  HERO  AS  POET 

of  the7n,  look  only  and  pass."  Or  think  of  this  ;  "  They  have 
not  the  hope  to  die,  Non  han  speranza  di  morte.^^  One  day,  it 
had  risen  sternly  benign  on  the  scathed  heart  of  Dante,  that  he, 
wretched,  never-resting,  worn  as  he  was,  would  full  surely  die ; 
"  that  Destiny  itself  could  not  doom  him  not  to  die."  Such 
words  are  in  this  man.  For  rigour,  earnestness  and  depth,  he 
is  not  to  be  paralleled  in  the  modern  world  ;  to  seek  his  parallel 
we  must  go  into  the  Hebrew  Bible,  and  live  with  the  antique 
Prophets  there. 

I  do  not  agree  with  much  modern  criticism,  in  greatly  pre- 
ferring the  Inferno  to  the  two  other  parts  of  the  Divine  Com- 
media.  Such  preference  belongs,  I  imagine,  to  our  general 
Byronism  of  taste,  and  is  like  to  be  a  transient  feeling.  The 
Purgatorio  and  Paradiso,  especially  the  former,  one  would 
almost  say,  is  even  more  excellent  than  it.  It  is  a  noble  thing, 
that  Purgatorio,  "  Mountain  of  Purification  ;  "  an  emblem  of  the 
noblest  conception  of  that  age.  If  Sin  is  so  fatal,  and  Hell  is 
and  must  be  so  rigorous,  awful,  yet  in  Repentance  too  is  man 
purified ;  Repentance  is  the  grand  Christian  act.  It  is  beauti- 
ful how  Dante  works  it  out.  The  tremolar  deW  onde,  that  "  trem- 
bling "  of  the  ocean-waves,  under  the  first  pure  gleam  of 
morning,  dawning  afar  on  the  wandering  Two,  is  as  the  type  of 
an  altered  mood.  Hope  has  now  dawned  ;  never-dying  Hope, 
if  in  company  still  with  heavy  sorrow.  The  obscure  sojourn  of 
daemons  and  reprobate  is  underfoot ;  a  soft  breathing  of  peni- 
tence mounts  higher  and  higher,  to  the  Throne  of  Mercy  itself. 
"  Pray  for  me,"  the  denizens  of  that  Mount  of  Pain  all  say  to 
him.  "  Tell  my  Giovanna  to  pray  for  me,"  my  daughter  Gio- 
vanna ;  "  I  think  her  mother  loves  me  no  more  !  "  They  toil 
painfully  up  by  that  winding  steep,  "  bent-down  like  corbels  of 
a  building,"  some  of  them,  —  crushed-together  so  "for  the  sin 
of  pride;"  yet  nevertheless  in  years,  in  ages  and  aeons,  they 
shall  have  reached  the  top,  which  is  Heaven's  gate,  and  by 
Mercy  shall  have  been  admitted  in.  The  joy  too  of  all,  when 
one  has  prevailed  ;  the  whole  Mountain  shakes  with  joy,  and  a 
psalm  of  praise  rises,  when  one  soul  has  perfected  repentance 
and  got  its  sin  and  misery  left  behind  !  I  call  all  this  a  noble 
embodiment  of  a  true  noble  thought. 


THOMAS    CARLYLE  427 

But  indeed  the  Three  compartments  mutually  support  one 
another,  are  indispensable  to  one  another.  The  Paradiso,  a 
kind  of  inarticulate  music  to  me,  is  the  redeeming  side  of  the 
Inferno  ;  the  Inferno  without  it  were  untrue.  All  three  make-up 
the  true  Unseen  World,  as  figured  in  the  Christianity  of  the 
Middle  Ages  ;  a  thing  forever  memorable,  forever  true  in  the 
essence  of  it,  to  all  men.  It  was  perhaps  delineated  in  no 
human  soul  with  such  depth  of  veracity  as  in  this  of  Dante's  ;  a 
man  sent  to  sing  it,  to  keep  it  long  memorable.  Very  notable 
with  what  brief  simplicity  he  passes  out  of  the  every-day  reality, 
into  the  Invisible  one  ;  and  in  the  second  or  third  stanza,  we 
find  ourselves  in  the  World  of  Spirits ;  and  dwell  there,  as 
among  things  palpable,  indubitable !  To  Dante  they  were  so  ; 
the  real  world,  as  it  is  called,  and  its  facts,  was  but  the  threshold 
to  an  infinitely  higher  Fact  of  a  world.  At  bottom,  the  one  was 
as  /;r/^r-natural  as  the  other.  Has  not  each  man  a  soul  ?  He 
will  not  only  be  a  spirit,  but  is  one.  To  the  earnest  Dante  it  is 
all  one  visible  Fact ;  he  believes  it,  sees  it ;  is  the  Poet  of  it  in 
virtue  of  that.  Sincerity,  I  say  again,  is  the  saving  merit,  now 
as  always. 

Dante's  Hell,  Purgatory,  Paradise,  are  a  symbol  withal,  an 
emblematic  representation  of  his  Belief  about  this  Universe:  — 
some  Critic  in  a  future  age,  like  those  Scandinavian  ones  the 
other  day,  who  has  ceased  altogether  to  think  as  Dante  did, 
may  find  this  too  all  an  "  Allegory,"  perhaps  an  idle  Allegory! 
It  is  a  sublime  embodiment,  or  sublimest,  of  the  soul  of  Christi- 
anity. It  expresses,  as  in  huge  worldwide  architectural  em- 
blems, how  the  Christian  Dante  felt  Good  and  Evil  to  be  the 
two  polar  elements  of  this  Creation,  on  which  it  all  turns;  that 
these  two  differ  not  by  prefcrahility  of  one  to  the  other,  but  by 
incompatibility  absolute  and  infinite  ;  that  the  one  is  excellent 
and  high  as  light  and  Heaven,  the  other  hideous,  black  as 
Gehenna  and  the  Pit  of  Hell !  Everlasting  Justice,  yet  with 
Penitence,  with  everlasting  Pity, — all  Christianism,  as  Dante 
and  the  Middle  Ages  had  it,  is  emblemed  here.  Emblemed  : 
and  yet,  as  I  urged  the  other  day,  with  what  entire  truth  of 
purpose  ;  how  unconscious  of  any  embleming  !  Hell,  Purgatory, 
Paradise :  these  things  were  not  fashioned  as  emblems ;   was 


428  THE  HERO  AS  POET 

there,  in  our  Modern  European  Mind,  any  thought  at  all  of  their 
being  emblems  ?  Were  they  not  indubitable  awful  facts  ;  the 
whole  heart  of  man  taking  them  for  practically  true,  all  Nature 
everywhere  confirming  them  ?  So  is  it  always  in  these  things. 
Men  do  not  believe  an  Allegory.  The  future  Critic,  whatever  his 
new  thought  may  be,  who  considers  this  of  Dante  to  have  been  all 
got-up  as  an  Allegory,  will  commit  one  sore  mistake  !  —  Pagan- 
ism we  recognised  as  a  veracious  expression  of  the  earnest  awe- 
struck feeling  of  man  towards  the  Universe  ;  veracious,  true 
once,  and  still  not  without  worth  for  us.  But  mark  here  the 
difference  of  Paganism  and  Christianism ;  one  great  difference. 
Paganism  emblemed  chiefly  the  Operations  of  Nature ;  the  des- 
tinies, efforts,  combinations,  vicissitudes  of  things  and  men  in 
this  world ;  Christianism  emblemed  the  Law  of  Human  Duty, 
the  Moral  Law  of  Man.  One  was  for  the  sensuous  nature :  a 
rude  helpless  utterance  of  \\i&  first  Thought  of  men,  —  the  chief 
recognised  virtue.  Courage,  Superiority  to  Fear.  The  other 
was  not  for  the  senuous  nature,  but  for  the  moral.  What  a 
progress  is  here,  if  in  that  one  respect  only !  — 

And  so  in  this  Dante,  as  we  said,  had  ten  silent  centuries,  in 
a  very  strange  way,  found  a  voice.  The  Divina  Commedia  is  of 
Dante's  writing ;  yet  in  truth  //  belongs  to  ten  Christian  cen- 
turies, only  the  finishing  of  it  is  Dante's.  So  always.  The 
craftsman  there,  the  smith  with  that  metal  of  his,  with  these 
tools,  with  these  cunning  methods,  —  how  little  of  all  he  does 
is  properly  his  work !  All  past  inventive  men  work  there  with 
him  ;  —  as  indeed  with  all  of  us,  in  all  things.  Dante  is  the 
spokesman  of  the  Middle  Ages ;  the  Thought  they  lived  by 
stands  here  in  everlasting  music.  These  sublime  ideas  of  his, 
terrible  and  beautiful,  are  the  fruit  of  the  Christian  Meditation 
of  all  the  good  men  who  had  gone  before  him.  Precious  they ; 
but  also  is  not  he  precious  ?  Much,  had  not  he  spoken,  would 
have  been  dumb ;  not  dead,  yet  living  voiceless. 

On  the  whole,  is  it  not  an  utterance,  this  mystic  Song,  at  once 
of  one  of  the  greatest  human  souls,  and  of  the  highest  thing  that 
Europe  had  hitherto  reahsed  for  itself  ?  Christianism,  as  Dante 
sings  it,  is  another  than  Paganism  in  the  rude  Norse  mind : 
another  than  "  Bastard  Christianism  "  half-articulately  spoken 


THOMAS   CARLYLE  •  429 

in  the  Arab  Desert  seven-hundred  years  before  !  —  The  noblest 
idea  made  7'eal  hitherto  among  men,  is  sung,  and  emblemed- 
forth  abidingly,  by  one  of  the  noblest  men.  In  the  one  sense 
and  in  the  other,  are  we  not  right  glad  to  possess  it  ?  As  I 
calculate,  it  may  last  yet  for  long  thousands  of  years.  For  the 
thing  that  is  uttered  from  the  inmost  parts  of  a  man's  soul, 
differs  altogether  from  what  is  uttered  by  the  outer  part.  The 
outer  is  of  the  day,  under  the  empire  of  mode  ;  the  outer  passes 
away,  in  swift  endless  changes ;  the  inmost  is  the  same  yester- 
day, today  and  forever.  True  souls,  in  all  generations  of  the 
world,  who  look  on  this  Dante,  will  find  a  brotherhood  in  him ; 
the  deep  sincerity  of  his  thoughts,  his  woes  and  hopes,  will 
speak  likewise  to  their  sincerity ;  they  will  feel  that  this  Dante 
too  was  a  brother.  Napoleon  in  Saint-Helena  is  charmed  with 
the  genial  veracity  of  old  Homer.  The  oldest  Hebrew  Prophet, 
under  a  vesture  the  most  diverse  from  ours,  does  yet,  because 
he  speaks  from  the  heart  of  man,  speak  to  all  men's  hearts. 
It  is  the  one  sole  secret  of  continuing  long  memorable.  Dante, 
for  depth  of  sincerity,  is  like  an  antique  Prophet  too  ;  his  words, 
like  theirs,  come  from  his  very  heart.  One  need  not  wonder 
if  it  were  predicted  that  his  Poem  might  be  the  most  enduring 
thing  our  Europe  has  yet  made  ;  for  nothing  so  endures  as  a 
truly  spoken  word.  All  cathedrals,  pontificalities,  brass  and 
stone,  and  outer  arrangement  never  so  lasting,  are  brief  in 
comparison  to  an  unfathomable  heart-song  like  this  :  one  feels 
as  if  it  might  survive,  still  of  importance  to  men,  when  these 
had  all  sunk  into  new  irrecognisable  combinations,  and  had 
ceased  individually  to  be.  Europe  has  made  much ;  great 
cities,  great  empires,  encyclopaedias,  creeds,  bodies  of  opinion 
and  practice  :  but  it  has  made  little  of  the  class  of  Dante's 
Thought.  Homer  yet  zV,  veritably  present  face  to  face  with 
every  open  soul  of  us ;  and  Greece,  where  is  it.  Desolate  for 
thousands  of  years ;  away,  vanished ;  a  bewildered  heap  of 
stones  and  rubbish,  the  life  and  existence  of  it  all  gone.  Like 
a  dream ;  like  the  dust  of  King  Agamemnon !  Greece  was  ; 
Greece,  except  in  the  ivords  it  spoke,  is  not. 

The  uses  of  this   Dante  ?     We  will  not  say  much  about  his 
"  uses."     A  human  soul  who  has  once  got  into  that  primal  ele* 


430  THE  HERO  AS  POET 

ment  of  Song,  and  sung-forth  fitly  somewhat  therefrom,  has 
worked  in  the  depths  of  our  existence  ;  feeding  through  long 
times  the  \\i^-roots  of  all  excellent  human  things  whatsoever,  —  in 
a  way  that  "  utilities  "  will  not  succeed  well  in  calculating  ! 
We  will  not  estimate  the  Sun  by  the  quantity  of  gas-light  it 
saves  us ;  Dante  shall  be  invaluable,  or  of  no  value.  One 
remark  I  may  make  :  the  contrast  in  this  respect  between  the 
Hero-Poet  and  the  Hero-Prophet.  In  a  hundred  years,  Ma- 
homet, as  we  saw,  had  his  Arabians  at  Grenada  and  at  Delhi ; 
Dante's  Italians  seem  to  be  yet  very  much  where  they  were. 
Shall  we  say,  then,  Dante's  effect  on  the  world  was  small  in 
comparison  ?  Not  so :  his  arena  is  far  more  restricted  ;  but 
also  it  is  far  nobler,  clearer ;  —  perhaps  not  less  but  more  im- 
portant. Mahomet  speaks  to  great  masses  of  men,  in  the 
coarse  dialect  adapted  to  such  ;  a  dialect  filled  with  inconsis- 
tencies, crudities,  foUies :  on  the  great  masses  alone  can  he  act, 
and  there  with  good  and  with  evil  strangely  blended.  Dante 
speaks  to  the  noble,  the  pure  and  great,  in  all  times  and 
places.  Neither  does  he  grow  obsolete,  as  the  other  does. 
Dante  burns  as  a  pure  star,  fixed  there  in  the  firmament,  at 
which  the  great  and  the  high  of  all  ages  kindle  themselves  :  he 
is  the  possession  of  all  the  chosen  of  the  world  for  uncounted 
time.  Dante,  one  calculates,  may  long  survive  Mahomet.  In 
this  way  the  balance  may  be  made  straight  again. 

But,  at  any  rate,  it  is  not  by  what  is  called  their  effect  on  the 
world,  by  what  we  can  judge  of  their  effect  there,  that  a  man  and 
his  work  are  measured.  Effect  ?  Influence  ?  Utility  ?  Let  a 
man  do  his  work ;  the  fruit  of  it  is  the  care  of  Another  than  he. 
It  will  grow  its  own  fruit ;  and  whether  embodied  in  Caliph 
Thrones  and  Arabian  Conquests,  so  that  it  "  fills  all  Morning 
and  Evening  Newspapers,"  and  all  Histories,  which  are  a  kind 
of  distilled  Newspapers  ;  or  not  embodied  so  at  all  ;  —  what 
matters  that  ?  That  is  not  the  real  fruit  of  it !  The  Arabian 
Caliph,  in  so  far  only  as  he  did  something,  was  something. 
If  the  great  Cause  of  Man,  and  Man's  work  in  God's  Earth 
got  no  furtherance  from  the  Arabian  Caliph,  then  no  matter 
how  many  scimetars  he  drew,  how  many  gold  piasters  pocketed, 
and  what  uproar  and  blaring  he  made  in  this  world, — he  was 


THOMAS   CARLYLE  43 1 

but  a  loud-sounding  inanity  and  futility  ;  at  bottom,  he  was  not 
at  all.  Let  us  honour  the  great  empire  of  Silence,  once  more  ! 
The  boundless  treasury  which  we  do  ?wt  jingle  in  our  pockets, 
or  count  up  and  present  before  men  !  It  is  perhaps,  of  'all 
things,  the  usefuUest  for  each  of  us  to  do,  in  these  loud  times.  — 


MRS.   BATTLE'S    OPINIONS    ON    WHIST 

CHARLES   LAMB 
[From  Essays  of  Elia,  1822-24.] 

"  A  CLEAR  fire,  a  clean  hearth,  and  the  rigour  of  the  game." 
This  was  the  celebrated  wish  of  old  Sarah  Battle  (now  with  God) 
who,  next  to  her  devotions,  loved  a  good  game  of  whist.  She 
was  none  of  your  lukewarm  gamesters,  your  half-and-half  players, 
who  have  no  objection  to  take  a  hand,  if  you  want  one  to  make 
up  a  rubber ;  who  affirm  that  they  have  no  pleasure  in  winning ; 
that  they  like  to  win  one  game  and  lose  another ;  that  they  can 
while  away  an  hour  very  agreeably  at  a  card-table,  but  are  in- 
different whether  they  play  or  no ;  and  will  desire  an  adversary, 
who  has  slipped  a  wrong  card,  to  take  it  up  and  play  another. 
These  insufferable  triflers  are  the  curse  of  a  table.  One  of  these 
flies  will  spoil  a  whole  pot.  Of  such  it  may  be  said  that  they 
do  not  play  at  cards,  but  only  play  at  playing  at  them. 

Sarah  Battle  was  none  of  that  breed.  She  detested  them,  as 
I  do,  from  her  heart  and  soul,  and  would  not,  save  upon  a  strik- 
ing emergency,  willingly  seat  herself  at  the  same  table  with  them. 
She  loved  a  thorough-paced  partner,  a  determined  enemy.  She 
took,  and  gave,  no  concessions.  She  hated  favours.  She  never 
made  a  revoke,  nor  ever  passed  it  over  in  her  adversary  without 
exacting  the  utmost  forfeiture.  She  fought  a  good  fight :  cut 
and  thrust.  She  held  not  her  good  sword  (her  cards)  "  like  a 
dancer."  She  sate  bolt  upright;  and  neither  showed  you  her 
cards,  nor  desired  to  see  yours.  All  people  have  their  blind 
side  —  their  superstitions,  and  I  have  heard  her  declare,  under 
the  rose,  that  Hearts  was  her  favourite  suit. 


432  MRS.  BATTLE'S  OPINIONS  ON  WHIST 

I  never  in  my  life  —  and  I  knew  Sarah  Battle  many  of  the 
best  years  of  it  —  saw  her  take  out  her  snuff-box  when  it  was 
her  turn  to  play ;  or  snuff  a  candle  in  the  middle  of  a  game  ;  or 
ring  for  a  servant  till  it  was  fairly  over.  She  never  introduced, 
or  connived  at,  miscellaneous  conversation  during  its  process. 
As  she  emphatically  observed,  cards  were  cards :  and  if  I  ever 
saw  unmingled  distaste  in  her  fine  last-century  countenance,  it 
was  at  the  airs  of  a  young  gentleman  of  a  literary  turn,  who  had 
been  with  difficulty  persuaded  to  take  a  hand  ;  and  who,  in  his 
excess  of  candour,  declared  that  he  thought  there  was  no  harm 
in  unbending  the  mind  now  and  then,  after  serious  studies,  in 
recreations  of  that  kind  !  She  could  not  bear  to  have  her  noble 
occupation,  to  which  she  wound  up  her  faculties,  considered  in 
that  light.  It  was  her  business,  her  duty,  the  thing  she  came 
into  the  world  to  do,  —  and  she  did  it.  She  unbent  her  mind 
afterwards  —  over  a  book. 

Pope  was  her  favourite  author :  his  Jiape  of  the  Lock  her 
favourite  work.  She  once  did  me  the  favour  to  play  over  with 
me  (with  the  cards)  his  celebrated  game  of  Ombre  in  that  poem ; 
and  to  explain  to  me  how  far  it  agreed  with,  and  in  what  points 
it  would  be  found  to  differ  from,  tradrille.  Her  illustrations 
were  apposite  and  poignant ;  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  sending 
the  substance  of  them  to  Mr.  Bowles  :  but  I  suppose  they  came 
too  late  to  be  inserted  among  his  ingenious  notes  upon  that 
author. 

Quadrille,  she  has  often  told  me,  was  her  first  love  ;  but  whisl 
had  engaged  her  maturer  esteem.  The  former,  she  said,  was 
showy  and  specious,  and  likely  to  allure  young  persons.  The 
uncertainty  and  quick  shifting  of  partners  —  a  thing  which  the 
constancy  of  whist  abhors  ;  —  the  dazzling  supremacy  and  regal 
investiture  of  Spadille  —  absurd,  as  she  justly  observed,  in  the 
pure  aristocracy  of  whist,  where  his  crown  and  garter  gave  him 
no  proper  power  above  his  brother-nobility  of  the  Aces;  —  the 
giddy  vanity,  so  taking  to  the  inexperienced,  of  playing  alone  ;  — 
above  all,  the  overpowering  attractions  of  a  Sans  Prendre  Vole, 
—  to  the  triumph  of  which  there  is  certainly  nothing  parallel 
or  approaching  in  the  contingencies  of  whist;  —  all  these,  she 
would  say,  make  quadrille  a  game  of  captivation  to  the  young 


CHARLES  LAMB  433 

and  enthusiastic.  But  whist  was  the  solider  game :  that  was  her 
word.  It  was  a  long  meal ;  not,  like  quadrille,  a  feast  of  snatches. 
One  or  two  rubbers  might  co-extend  in  duration  with  an  evening. 
They  gave  time  to  form  rooted  friendships,  to  cultivate  steady 
enmities.  She  despised  the  chance-started,  capricious,  and  ever- 
fluctuating  alliances  of  the  other.  The  skirmishes  of  quadrille, 
she  would  say,  reminded  her  of  the  petty  ephemeral  embroil- 
ments of  the  little  Italian  states,  depicted  by  Machiavel ;  per- 
petually changing  postures  and  connexions  ;  bitter  foes  to-day, 
sugared  darlings  to-morrow  ;  kissing  and  scratching  in  a  breath  ; 

—  but  the  wars  of  whist  were  comparable  to  the  long,  steady, 
deep-rooted,  rational  antipathies  of  the  great  French  and 
English  nations. 

A  grave  simplicity  was  what  she  chiefly  admired  in  her  favour- 
ite game.     There  was  nothing  silly  in  it,  like  the  nob  in  cribbage 

—  nothing  superfluous,  ^ofitishes  —  that  most  irrational  of  all 
pleas  that  a  reasonable  being  can  set  up  :  —  that  anyone  should 
claim  four  by  virtue  of  holding  cards  of  the  same  mark  and 
colour,  without  reference  to  the  playing  of  the  game,  or  the 
individual  worth  or  pretensions  of  the  cards  themselves  !  She 
held  this  to  be  a  solecism  ;  as  pitiful  an  ambition  at  cards  as 
alliteration  is  in  authorship.  She  despised  superficiality,  and 
looked  deeper  than  the  colours  of  things.  —  Suits  were  soldiers, 
she  would  say,  and  must  have  a  uniformity  of  array  to  distinguish 
them  :  but  what  should  we  say  to  a  foolish  squire,  who  should 
claim  a  merit  from  dressing  up  his  tenantry  in  red  jackets,  that 
never  were  to  be  marshalled  —  never  to  take  the  field?  —  She 
even  wished  that  whist  were  more  simple  than  it  is  ;  and,  in  my 
mind,  would  have  stripped  it  of  some  appendages,  which,  in  the 
state  of  human  frailty,  may  be  venially,  and  even  commendably, 
allowed  of.  She  saw  no  reason  for  the  deciding  of  the  trump  by 
the  turn  of  the  card.  Why  not  one  suit  always  trumps  ?  —  Why 
two  colours,  when  the  mark  of  the  suit  would  have  sufficiently 
distinguished  them  without  it?  — 

"  But  the  eye,  my  dear  Madam,  is  agreeably  refreshed  Math 
the  variety.  Man  is  not  a  creature  of  pure  reason  —  he  must 
have  his  senses  delightfully  appealed  to.  We  see  it  in  Roman 
Catholic  countries,  where  the  music  and  the  paintings  draw  in 

2F 


434  ^^^^'  BATTLE'S  OPINIONS  ON  WHIST 

many  to  worship,  whom  your  quaker  spirit  of  unsensualising 
would  have  kept  out.  —  You  yourself  have  a  pretty  collection  of 
paintings  —  but  confess  to  me,  whether,  walking  in  your  gallery 
at  Sandham,  among  those  clear  Vandykes,  or  among  the  Paul 
Potters  in  the  ante-room,  you  ever  felt  your  bosom  glow  with  an 
elegant  delight,  at  all  comparable  to  that  yon  have  it  in  your  power 
to  experience  most  evenings  over  a  well-arranged  assortment  of 
the  court-cards  ?  —  the  pretty  antic  habits,  like  heralds  in  a  pro- 
cession —  the  gay  triumph-assuring  scarlets  —  the  contrasting 
deadly-killing  sables  —  the  '  hoary  majesty  of  spades  '  —  Pam 
in  all  his  glory  !  — 

"  All  these  might  be  dispensed  with  ;  and  with  their  naked 
names  upon  the  drab  pasteboard,  the  game  might  go  on  very 
well,  pictureless  ;  but  the  beauty  of  cards  would  be  extinguished 
for  ever.  Stripped  of  all  that  is  imaginative  in  them,  they  must 
degenerate  into  mere  gambling.  Imagine  a  dull  deal  board,  or 
drum  head,  to  spread  them  on,  instead  of  that  nice  verdant  car- 
pet (next  to  nature's),  fitted  arena  for  those  courtly  combatants 
to  play  their  gallant  jousts  and  turneys  in!  —  Exchange  those 
delicately-turned  ivory  markers  —  (work  of  Chinese  artist,  uncon- 
scious of  their  symbol,  —  or  as  profanely  slighting  their  true 
application  as  the  arrantest  Ephesian  journeyman  that  turned 
out  those  little  shrines  for  the  goddess)  —  exchange  them  for  little 
bits  of  leather  (our  ancestors'  money)  or  chalk  and  a  slate  !  " — 

The  old  lady,  with  a  smile,  confessed  the  soundness  of  my 
logic  ;  and  to  her  approbation  of  my  arguments  on  her  favourite 
topic  that  evening,  I  have  always  fancied  myself  indebted  for 
the  legacy  of  a  curious  cribbage-board,  made  of  the  finest  Sienna 
marble,  which  her  maternal  uncle  (old  Walter  Plumer,  whom  I 
have  elsewhere  celebrated)  brought  with  him  from  Florence  :  — 
this,  and  a  trifle  of  five  hundred  pounds,  came  to  me  at  her 
death. 

The  former  bequest  (which  I  do  not  least  value)  I  have  kept 
with  religious  care  ;  though  she  herself,  to  confess  a  truth,  was 
never  greatly  taken  with  cribbage.  It  was  an  essentially  vulgar 
game,  I  have  heard  her  say,  —  disputing  with  her  uncle,  who  was 
very  partial  to  it.  She  could  never  heartily  bring  her  mouth  to 
pronounce  "6"^  —  "  or  "  Thafs  a  go,''''     She  called  it  an  ungram- 


CHARLES  LAMB  435 

matical  game.  The  pegging  teased  her.  I  once  knew  her  to 
forfeit  a  rubber  (a  five  dollar  stake)  because  she  would  not  take 
advantage  of  the  turn-up  knave,  which  would  have  given  it  to 
her,  but  which  she  must  have  claimed  by  the  disgraceful  tenure 
of  declaring  "  tivofor  his  heels."  There  is  something  extremely 
genteel  in  this  sort  of  self-denial.  Sarah  Battle  was  a  gentle- 
woman born. 

Piquet  she  held  the  best  game  at  the  cards  for  two  persons, 
though  she  would  ridicule  the  pedantry  of  the  terms  —  such  as 
pique  —  repique  —  the  capot  —  they  savoured,  she  thought,  of 
affectation.  But  games  for  two,  or  even  three,  she  never  greatly 
cared  for.  She  loved  the  quadrate,  or  square.  She  would 
argue  thus  :  —  Cards  are  warfare  :  the  ends  are  gain,  with  glory. 
But  cards  are  war,  in  disguise  of  a  sport :  when  single  adver- 
saries encounter,  the  ends  proposed  are  too  palpable.  By 
themselves,  it  is  too  close  a  fight ;  with  spectators,  it  is  not  much 
bettered.  No  looker-on  can  be  interested,  except  for  a  bet,  and 
then  it  is  a  mere  affair  of  money ;  he  cares  not  for  your  luck 
sympathetically,  or  for  your  play.  —  Three  are  still  worse  ;  a  mere 
naked  war  of  every  man  against  every  man,  as  in  cribbage,  with- 
out league  or  alliance  ;  or  a  rotation  of  petty  and  contradictory 
interests,  a  succession  of  heartless  leagues,  and  not  much  more 
hearty  infractions  of  them,  as  in  tradrille.  —  But  in  square  games 
{she  tneant  whist)  all  that  is  possible  to  be  attained  in  card-play- 
ing is  accomplished.  There  are  the  incentives  of  profit  with 
honour,  common  to  every  species  —  though  the  latter  can  be  but 
very  imperfectly  enjoyed  in  those  other  games,  where  the  spec- 
tator is  only  feebly  a  participator.  But  the  parties  in  whist  are 
spectators  and  principals  too.  They  are  a  theatre  to  themselves, 
and  a  looker-on  is  not  wanted.  He  is  rather  worse  than  nothing, 
and  an  impertinence.  Whist  abhors  neutrality,  or  interests  be- 
yond its  sphere.  You  glory  in  some  surprising  stroke  of  skill  or 
fortune,  not  because  a  cold  —  or  even  an  interested  —  bystander 
witnesses  it,  but  because  your  partner  sympathises  in  the  con- 
tingency. You  win  for  two.  You  triumph  for  two.  Two  are 
exalted.  Two  again  are  mortified  ;  which  divides  their  disgrace, 
as  the  conjunction  doubles  (by  taking  off  the  invidiousness)  your 
glories.     Two  losing  to  two  are  better  reconciled,  than  one  to 


436  MRS.  BATTLE'S   OPINIONS  ON  WHIST 

one  in  that  close  butchery.  The  hostile  feeling  is  weakened  by 
multiplying  the  channels.  War  becomes  a  civil  game.  —  By  such 
reasonings  as  these  the  old  lady  was  accustomed  to  defend  her 
favourite  pastime. 

No  inducement  could  ever  prevail  upon  her  to  play  at  any 
game,  where  chance  entered  into  the  composition,  ^^r  nothing. 
Chance  she  would  argue  —  and  here  again,  admire  the  subtlety 
of  her  conclusion ;  —  chance  is  nothing,  but  where  something 
else  depends  upon  it.  It  is  obvious  that  cannot  be  glory.  What 
rational  cause  of  exultation  could  it  give  to  a  man  to  turn  up  size 
ace  a  hundred  times  together  by  himself  ?  or  before  spectators, 
where  no  stake  was  depending  ?  —  Make  a  lottery  of  a  hundred 
thousand  tickets  with  but  one  fortunate  number  —  and  what  pos- 
sible principle  of  our  nature,  except  stupid  wonderment,  could  it 
gratify  to  gain  that  number  as  many  times  successively  without 
a  prize  ?  —  Therefore  she  disliked  the  mixture  of  chance  in  back- 
gammon, where  it  was  not  played  for  money.  She  called  it  fool- 
ish, and  those  people  idiots,  who  were  taken  with  a  lucky  hit 
under  such  circumstances.  Games  of  pure  skill  were  as  little  to 
her  fancy.  Played  for  a  stake,  they  were  a  mere  system  of  over- 
reaching. Played  for  glory,  they  were  a  mere  setting  of  one 
man's  wit,  —  his  memory,  or  combination-faculty  rather — against 
another's ;  like  a  mock-engagement  at  a  review,  bloodless  and 
profitless.  She  could  not  conceive  a  game  wanting  the  spritely 
infusion  of  chance,  the  handsome  excuses  of  good  fortune.  Two 
people  playing  at  chess  in  a  corner  of  a  room,  whilst  whist  was 
stirring  in  the  centre,  would  inspire  her  with  insufferable  horror 
and  ennui.  Those  well-cut  similitudes  of  Castles  and  Knights, 
the  imagery  of  the  board,  she  would  argue,  (and  I  think  in  this 
case  justly),  were  entirely  misplaced  and  senseless.  Those  hard 
head-contests  can  in  no  instance  ally  with  the  fancy.  They 
reject  form  and  colour.  A  pencil  and  dry  slate,  she  used  to  say, 
were  the  proper  arena  for  such  combatants. 

To  those  puny  objectors  against  cards,  as  nurturing  the  bad 
passions,  she  would  retort,  that  man  is  a  gaming  animal.  He 
must  be  always  trying  to  get  the  better  in  something  or  other  :  — 
that  this  passion  can  scarcely  be  more  safely  expended  than  upon 
a  game  at  cards :  that  cards  are  a  temporary  illusion  ;  in  truth, 


CHARLES  LAMB  437 

a  mere  drama ;  for  we  do  but  play  at  being  mightily  concerned, 
where  a  few  idle  shillings  are  at  stake,  yet,  during  the  illusion,  we 
are  as  mightily  concerned  as  those  whose  stake  is  crowns  and 
kingdoms.  They  are  a  sort  of  dream-fighting;  much  ado;  great 
battling,  and  little  bloodshed  ;  mighty  means  for  disproportioned 
ends  ;  quite  as  diverting,  and  a  great  deal  more  innoxious,  than 
many  of  those  more  serious  games  oi  life,  which  men  play,  with- 
out esteeming  them  to  be  such. — 

With  great  deference  to  the  old  lady's  judgment  in  these 
matters,  I  think  I  have  experienced  some  moments  in  my  life, 
when  playing  at  cards  for  nothing  has  even  been  agreeable. 
When  I  am  in  sickness,  or  not  in  the  best  spirits,  I  sometimes 
call  for  the  cards,  and  play  a  game  at  piquet  for  love  with  my 
cousin  Bridget — Bridget  Elia. 

I  grant  there  is  something  sneaking  in  it ;  but  with  a  tooth- 
ache, or  a  sprained  ankle,  —  when  you  are  subdued  and  humble, 

—  you  are  glad  to  put  up  with  an  inferior  spring  of  action. 
There   is  such  a  thing  in  nature,  I  am  convinced,  as  sick 

whist.  — 

I  grant  it  is  not  the  highest  style  of  man  —  I  deprecate  the 
manes  of  Sarah  Battle  —  she  lives  not,  alas !  to  whom  I  should 
apologise.  — 

At  such  times,  those  terms  which  my  old  friend  objected  to, 
come  in  as  something  admissible.  —  I  love  to  get  a  tierce  or  a 
quatorze,  though  they  mean  nothing.  I  am  subdued  to  an  inferior 
interest.     Those  shadows  of  winning  amuse  me. 

That  last  game  I  had  with  my  sweet  cousin  (I  capotted  her) 

—  (dare  I  tell  thee,  how  foolish  I  am  ?)  —  I  wished  it  might  have 
lasted  for  ever,  though  we  gained  nothing,  and  lost  nothing, 
though  it  was  a  mere  shade  of  play :  I  would  be  content  to  go 
on  in  that  idle  folly  for  ever.  The  pipkin  should  be  ever  boiling, 
that  was  to  prepare  the  gentle  lenitive  to  my  foot,  which  Bridget 
was  doomed  to  apply  after  the  game  was  over ;  and,  as  I  do  not 
much  relish  appliances,  there  it  should  ever  bubble.  Bridget  and 
I  should  be  ever  playing. 


438  THE    VISION  OF  SUDDEN  DEATH 

THE   VISION    OF   SUDDEN    DEATH 

THOMAS   DE  QUINCEY 

[From  The  English  Mail- Coach,  or  the  Glory  of  Motion,  1849  ;  the  text  is 
that  of  De  Quincey's  revision  of  1854,] 

What  is  to  be  taken  as  the  predominant  opinion  of  man, 
reflective  and  philosophic,  upon  sudden  death  ?  It  is  remark- 
able that,  in  different  conditions  of  society,  sudden  death  has 
been  variously  regarded  as  the  consummation  of  an  earthly 
career  most  fervently  to  be  desired,  or,  again,  as  that  consumma- 
tion which  is  with  most  horror  to  be  deprecated.  Caesar  the 
Dictator,  at  his  last  dinner-party  {coend),  on  the  very  evening 
before  his  assassination,  when  the  minutes  of  his  earthly  career 
were  numbered,  being  asked  what  death,  in  his  judgment,  might 
be  pronounced  the  most  eligible,  replied  "  That  which  should  be 
most  sudden."  On  the  other  hand,  the  divine  Litany  of  our 
English  Church,  when  breathing  forth  supplications,  as  if  in 
some  representative  character,  for  the  whole  human  race  pros- 
trate before  God,  places  such  a  death  in  the  very  van  of  horrors  : 
"  From  lightning  and  tempest ;  from  plague,  pestilence,  and 
famine ;  from  battle  and  murder,  and  from  sudden  death  — 
Good  Lord,  deliver  iis.'"  Sudden  death  is  here  made  to  crown 
the  climax  in  a  grand  ascent  of  calamities  f  it  is  ranked  among 
the  last  of  curses ;  and  yet  by  the  noblest  of  Romans  it  was 
ranked  as  the  first  of  blessings.  In  that  difference  most  readers 
will  see  little  more  than  the  essential  difference  between  Chris- 
tianity and  Paganism.  But  this,  on  consideration,  I  doubt. 
The  Christian  Church  may  be  right  in  its  estimate  of  sudden 
death ;  and  it  is  a  natural  feeling,  though  after  all  it  may  also 
be  an  infirm  one,  to  wish  for  a  quiet  dismissal  from  life,  as  that 
which  seems  most  reconcilable  with  meditation,  with  penitential 
retrospects,  and  with  the  humilities  of  farewell  prayer.  There 
does  not,  however,  occur  to  me  any  direct  scriptural  warrant 
for  this  earnest  petition  of  the  English  Litany,  unless  under  a 
special  construction  of  the  word  "  sudden."  It  seems  a  petition 
indulged  rather  and  conceded  to  human  infirmity  than  exacted 


THOMAS  DE   QUINCE Y  439 

from  human  piety.  It  is  not  so  much  a  doctrine  built  upon  the 
eternities  of  the  Christian  system  as  a  plausible  opinion  built 
upon  special  varieties  of  physical  temperament.  Let  that,  how- 
ever, be  as  it  may,  two  remarks  suggest  themselves  as  prudent 
restraints  upon  a  doctrine  which  else  may  wander,  and  has  wan- 
dered, into  an  uncharitable  superstition.  The  first  is  this  :  that 
many  people  are  likely  to  exaggerate  the  horror  of  a  sudden 
death  from  the  disposition  to  lay  a  false  stress  upon  words  or 
acts  simply  because  by  an  accident  they  have  become ^;/t?/ words 
or  acts.  If  a  man  dies,  for  instance,  by  some  sudden  death 
when  he  happens  to  be  intoxicated,  such  a  death  is  falsely 
regarded  with  peculiar  horror ;  as  though  the  intoxication  were 
suddenly  exalted  into  a  blasphemy.  But  that  is  unphilosophic. 
The  man  was,  or  he  was  not,  habitually  a  drunkard.  If  not,  if 
his  intoxication  were  a  solitary  accident,  there  can  be  no  reason 
for  allowing  special  emphasis  to  this  act  simply  because  through 
misfortune  it  became  his  final  act.  Nor,  on  the  other  hand,  if  it 
were  no  accident,  but  one  of  his  habitual  transgressions,  will  it 
be  the  more  habitual  or  the  more  a  transgression  because  some 
sudden  calamity,  surprising  him,  has  caused  this  habitual  trans- 
gression to  be  also  a  final  one.  Could  the  man  have  had  any 
reason  even  dimly  to  foresee  his  own  sudden  death,  there  would 
have  been  a  new  feature  in  his  act  of  intemperance  —  a  feature 
of  presumption  and  irreverence,  as  in  one  that,  having  known 
himself  drawing  near  to  the  presence  of  God,  should  have 
suited  his  demeanour  to  an  expectation  so  awful.  But  this  is  no 
part  of  the  case  supposed.  And  the  only  new  element  in  the 
man's  act  is  not  any  element  of  special  immorality,  but  simply 
of  special  misfortune. 

The  other  remark  has  reference  to  the  meaning  of  the  word 
sudden.  Very  possibly  Ceesar  and  the  Christian  Church  do 
not  differ  in  the  way  supposed,  —  that  is,  do  not  differ 
by  any  difference  of  doctrine  as  between  Pagan  and  Chris- 
tian views  of  the  moral  temper  appropriate  to  death  ;  but 
perhaps  they  are  contemplating  different  cases.  Both  contem- 
plate a  violent  death,  a  Bia^avaros  —  death  that  is  ^latos,  or,  in 
other  words,  death  that  is  brought  about,  not  by  internal  and 
spontaneous  change,  but  by  active  force  having  its  origin  from 


440  THE    VISION  OF  SUDDEN  DEATH 

without.  In  this  meaning  the  two  authorities  agree.  Thus  far 
they  are  in  harmony.  But  the  difference  is  that  the  Roman  by 
the  word  "  sudden  "  means  unli/igering,  whereas  the  Christian 
Litany  by  "  sudden  death  "  means  a  A^2Lt\\withoui warning,  con- 
sequently without  any  available  summons  to  religious  prepara- 
tion. The  poor  mutineer  who  kneels  down  to  gather  into  his 
heart  the  bullets  from  twelve  firelocks  of  his  pitying  comrades 
dies  by  a  most  sudden  death  in  Caesar's  sense  ;  one  shock,  one 
mighty  spasm,  one  (possibly  not  one)  groan,  and  all  is  over. 
But,  in  the  sense  of  the  Litany,  the  mutineer's  death  is  far  from 
sudden:  his  offence  originally,  his  imprisonment,  his  trial,  the 
interval  between  his  sentence  and  its  execution,  having  all 
furnished  him  with  separate  warnings  of  his  fate  —  having  all 
summoned  him  to  meet  it  with  solemn  preparation. 

Here  at  once,  in  this  sharp  verbal  distinction,  we  comprehend 
the  faithful  earnestness  with  which  a  holy  Christian  Church 
pleads  on  behalf  of  her  poor  departing  children  that  God  would 
vouchsafe  to  them  the  last  great  privilege  and  distinction  pos- 
sible on  a  death-bed,  viz.,  the  opportunity  of  untroubled  prepa- 
ration for  facing  this  mighty  trial.  Sudden  death,  as  a  mere 
variety  in  the  modes  of  dying  where  death  in  some  shape  is 
inevitable,  proposes  a  question  of  choice  -which,  equally  in  the 
Roman  and  the  Christian  sense,  will  be  variously  answered 
according  to  each  man's  variety  of  temperament.  Meantime, 
one  aspect  of  sudden  death  there  is,  one  modification,  upon 
which  no  doubt  can  arise,  that  of  all  martyrdoms  it  is  the  most 
agitating  —  viz.,  where  it  surprises  a  man  under  circumstances 
which  offer  (or  which  seem  to  offer)  some  hurrying,  flying, 
inappreciably  minute  chance  of  evading  it.  Sudden  as  the 
danger  which  it  affronts  must  be  any  effort  by  which  such  an 
evasion  can  be  accomplished.  Even  that,  even  the  sickening 
necessity  for  hurrying  in  extremity  where  all  hurry  seems  des- 
tined to  be  vain, — even  that  anguish  is  liable  to  a  hideous 
exasperation  in  one  particular  case :  viz.,  where  the  appeal  is 
made  not  exclusively  to  the  instinct  of  self-preservation,  but  to 
the  conscience,  on  behalf  of  some  other  life  besides  your  own, 
accidentally  thrown  upon  your  protection.  To  fail,  to  collapse 
in  a  service  merely  your  own,  might  seem  comparatively  venial ; 


THOMAS  DE   QUINCE Y  44 1 

though,  in  fact,  it  is  far  from  venial.  But  to  fail  in  a  case  where 
Providence  has  suddenly  thrown  into  your  hands  the  final 
interests  of  another,  —  a  fellow-creature  shuddering  between  the 
gates  of  life  and  death :  this,  to  a  man  of  apprehensive  con- 
science, would  mingle  the  misery  of  an  atrocious  criminality 
with  the  misery  of  a  bloody  calamity.  You  are  called  upon,  by 
the  case  supposed,  possibly  to  die,  but  to  die  at  the  very  moment 
when,  by  any  even  partial  failure  or  effeminate  collapse  of  your 
energies,  you  will  be  self-denounced  as  a  murderer.  You  had 
but  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  for  your  effort,  and  that  effort  might 
have  been  unavailing  ;  but  to  have  risen  to  the  level  of  such  an 
effort  would  have  rescued  you,  though  not  from  dying,  yet  from 
dying  as  a  traitor  to  your  final  and  farewell  duty. 

The  situation  here  contemplated  exposes  a  dreadful  ulcer, 
lurking  far  down  in  the  depths  of  human  nature.  It  is  not 
that  men  generally  are  summoned  to  face  such  awful  trials. 
But  potentially,  and  in  shadowy  outline,  such  a  trial  is  moving 
subterraneously  in  perhaps  all  men's  natures.  Upon  the  secret 
mirror  of  our  dreams  such  a  trial  is  darkly  projected,  perhaps, 
to  every  one  of  us.  That  dream,  so  familiar  to  childhood,  of 
meeting  a  lion,  and,  through  languishing  prostration  in  hope 
and  the  energies  of  hope,  that  constant  sequel  of  lying  down 
before  the  lion  publishes  the  secret  frailty  of  human  nature  — 
reveals  its  deep-seated  falsehood  to  itself  —  records  its  abysmal 
treachery.  Perhaps  not  one  of  us  escapes  that  dream  ;  perhaps, 
as  by  some  sorrowful  doom  of  man,  that  dream  repeats  for  every 
one  of  us,  through  every  generation,  the  original  temptation  in 
Eden.  Every  one  of  us,  in  this  dream,  has  a  bait  offered  to  the 
infirm  places  of  his  own  individual  will ;  once  again  a  snare  is 
presented  for  tempting  him  into  captivity  to  a  luxury  of  ruin ; 
once  again,  as  in  aboriginal  Paradise,  the  man  falls  by  his  own 
choice ;  again,  by  infinite  iteration,  the  ancient  earth  groans  to 
Heaven,  through  her  secret  caves,  over  the  weakness  of  her 
child.  "  Nature,  from  her  seat  sighing  through  all  her  works," 
again  "  gives  signs  of  woe  that  all  is  lost "  ;  and  again  the  covm- 
ter-sigh  is  repeated  to  the  sorrowing  heavens  for  the  endless 
rebellion  against  God.  It  is  not  without  probability  that  in  the 
world  of  dreams  every  one  of  us  ratifies  for  himself  the  original 


442  THE   VISION  OF  SUDDEN  DEATH 

transgression.  In  dreams,  perhaps  under  some  secret  conflict 
of  the  midnight  sleeper,  hghted  up  to  the  consciousness  at  the 
time,  but  darkened  to  the  memory  as  soon  as  all  is  finished,  each 
several  child  of  our  mysterious  race  completes  for  himself  the 
treason  of  the  aboriginal  fall. 

The  incident,  so  memorable  in  itself  by  its  features  of  horror, 
and  so  scenical  by  its  grouping  for  the  eye,  which  furnished  the 
text  for  this  reverie  upon  Sudden  Death  occurred  to  myself  in 
the  dead  of  night,  as  a  solitary  spectator,  when  seated  on  the 
box  of  the  Manchester  and  Glasgow  mail,  in  the  second  or  third 
summer  after  Waterloo.    I  find  it  necessary  to  relate  the  circum- 
stances, because  they  are  such  as  could  not  have  occurred  unless 
under  a  singular  combination  of  accidents.     In  those  days,  the 
oblique  and  lateral  communications  with  many  rural  post-offices 
were  so  arranged,  either  through  necessity  or  through  defect  of 
system,  as  to  make  it  requisite  for  the  main  north-western  mail 
{i.e.,  the  dow7i  mail)  on  reaching  Manchester  to  halt  for  a  num- 
ber of  hours  ;  how  many,  I  do  not  remember ;  six  or  seven,  I 
think ;  but  the  result  was  that,  in  the  ordinary  course,  the  mail 
recommenced  its  journey  northwards  about  midnight.     Wearied 
with  the  long  detention  at  a  gloomy  hotel,  I  walked  out  about 
eleven  o'clock  at  night  for  the  sake  of  fresh  air ;  meaning  to  fall 
in  with  the  mail  and  resume  my  seat  at  the  post-office.     The 
night,  however,  being  yet  dark,  as  the  moon  had  scarcely  risen, 
and  the  streets  being  at  that  hour  empty,  so  as  to  ofi^er  no  oppor- 
tunities for  asking  the  road,  I  lost  my  way,  and  did  not  reach 
the  post-office  until  it  was  considerably  past  midnight ;  but,  to 
my  great  relief  (as  it  was  important  for  me  to  be  in  Westmore- 
land by  the  morning),  I  saw  in  the  huge  saucer  eyes  of  the  mail, 
blazing  through  the  gloom,  an  evidence  that  my  chance  was  not 
yet  lost.     Past  the  time  it  was  ;  but,  by  some  rare  accident,  the 
mail  was  not  even  yet  ready  to  start.     I  ascended  to  my  seat  on 
the  box,  where  my  cloak  was  still  lying  as  it  had  lain  at  the 
Bridjrewater  Arms.     I  had  left  it  there  in  imitation  of  a  nautical 
discoverer,  who  leaves  a  bit  of  bunting  on  the  shore  of  his  dis- 
covery, by  way  of  w^arning  off  the  ground  the  whole  human  race, 
and  notifying  to  the  Christian  and  the  heathen  worlds,  with  his 
best  compUments,  that  he  has  hoisted  his  pocket-handkerchief  once 


THOMAS  DE    QUINCEY  443 

and  for  ever  upon  that  virgin  soil :  tlienceforward  claiming  the/z/^ 
dominii^  to  the  top  of  the  atmosphere  above  it,  and  also  the  right 
of  driving  shafts  to  the  centre  of  the  earth  below  it ;  so  that  all 
people  found  after  this  warning  either  aloft  in  upper  chambers  of 
the  atmosphere,  or  groping  in  subterraneous  shafts,  or  squatting 
audaciously  on  the  surface  of  the  soil,  will  be  treated  as  trespassers 
—  kicked,  that  is  to  say,  or  decapitated,  as  circumstances  may 
suggest,  by  their  very  faithful  servant,  the  owner  of  the  said  pocket- 
handkerchief.  In  the  present  case,  it  is  probable  that  my  cloak 
might  not  have  been  respected,  and  the  jus  gentium  ^  might  have 
been  cruelly  violated  in  my  person  —  for,  in  the  dark,  people  com- 
mit deeds  of  darkness,  gas  being  a  great  ally  of  morality ;  but  it 
so  happened  that  on  this  night  there  was  no  other  outside  passen- 
ger ;  and  thus  the  crime,  which  else  was  but  too  probable,  missed 
fire  for  want  of  a  criminal. 

Having  mounted  the  box,  I  took  a  small  quantity  of  lauda- 
num, having  already  travelled  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles  — 
viz.,  from  a  point  seventy  miles  beyond  London.  In  the  taking 
of  laudanum  there  was  nothing  extraordinary.  But  by  accident 
it  drew  upon  me  the  special  attention  of  my  assessor  on  the  box, 
the  coachman.  And  in  //urt  also  there  was  nothing  extraordi- 
nary. But  by  accident,  and  with  great  delight,  it  drew  my  own 
attention  to  the  fact  that  this  coachman  was  a  monster  in  point 
of  bulk,  and  that  he  had  but  one  eye.  In  fact,  he  had  been 
foretold  by  Virgil  as 

"  Monstrum  horrendum,  informe,  ingens,  cui  lumen  ademptum." 

He  answered  to  the  conditions  in  every  one  of  the  items :  — 
I,  a  monster  he  was  :  2,  dreadful ;  3,  shapeless  ;  4,  huge  ;  5,  who 
had  lost  an  eye.  But  why  should  t/iat  delight  me  ?  Had  he 
been  one  of  the  Calendars  in  the  Arabian  Nights  and  had 
paid  down  his  eye  as  the  price  of  his  criminal  curiosity,  what 
right  had  /  to  exult  in  his  misfortune  ?  I  did  not  exult  ;  I 
delighted  in  no  man's  punishment,  though  it  were  even  mer- 
ited. But  these  personal  distinctions  (Nos.  i,  2,  3,  4,  5)  iden- 
tified in  an  instant  an  old  friend  of  mine  whom   I   had  known 

1  [Law  of  ownership.]  2  [Law  of  nations.] 


444  ^^^    VISION  OF  SUDDEN  DEATH 

in  the  south  for  some  years  as  the  most  masterly  of  mail-coach- 
men. He  was  the  man  in  all  Europe  that  could  (if  any  could) 
have  driven  six-in-hand  full  gallop  over  Al  Sirat —  that  dread- 
ful bridge  of  Mahomet,  with  no  side  battlements,  and  of  extra 
room  not  enough  for  a  razor's  edge  —  leading  right  across  the 
bottomless  gulf.  Under  this  eminent  man,  whom  in  Greek  I 
cognominated  Cyclops  Dipluilates  (Cyclops  the  Charioteer),  I, 
and  others  known  to  me,  studied  the  diphrelatic  art.  Excuse, 
reader,  a  word  too  elegant  to  be  pedantic.  As  a  pupil,  though 
I  paid  extra  fees,  it  is  to  be  lamented  that  I  did  not  stand  high 
in  his  esteem.  It  showed  his  dogged  honesty  (though,  observe, 
not  his  discernment)  that  he  could  not  see  my  merits.  Let  us 
excuse  his  absurdity  in  this  particular  by  remembering  his  want 
of  an  eye.  Doubtless  that  made  him  blind  to  my  merits.  In 
the  art  of  conversation,  however,  he  admitted  that  I  had  the 
whip-hand  of  him.  On  the  present  occasion  great  joy  was  at 
our  meeting.  But  what  was  Cyclops  doing  here  ?  Had  the 
medical  men  recommended  northern  air,  or  how  ?  I  collected, 
from  such  explanations  as  he  volunteered,  that 'he  had  an  in- 
terest at  stake  in  some  suit-at-law  now  pending  at  Lancaster ; 
so  that  probably  he  had  got  himself  transferred  to  this  station 
for  the  purpose  of  connecting  with  his  professional  pursuits  an 
instant  readiness  for  the  calls  of  his  lawsuit. 

Meantime,  what  are  we  stopping  for  ?  ^  Surely  we  have  now  waited 
long  enough.  Oh,  this  procrastinating  mail,  and  this  procrastinat- 
ing post-offic"e  !  Can't  they  take  a  lesson  upon  that  subject  from 
me  ?  Some  people  have  called  me  procrastinating.  Yet  you  are 
witness,  reader,  that  I  w^s  here  kept  waiting  for  the  post-ofifice. 
Will  the  post-office  lay  its  hand  on  its  heart,  in  its  moments  of 
sobriety,  and  assert  that  ever  it  waited  for  me  ?  What  are  they 
about  ?  The  guard  tells  me  that  there  is  a  large  extra  accumu- 
lation of  foreign  mails  this  night,  owing  to  irregularities  caused 
by  war,  by  wind,  by  weather,  in  the  packet  service,  which  as  yet 
does  not  benefit  at  all  by  steam.  For  an  extra  hour,  it  seems,  the 
post-office  has  been  engaged  in  threshing  out  the  pure  wheaten 
correspondence  of  Glasgow,  and  winnowing  it  kom  the  chaff  of  all 
baser  intermediate  towns.  But  at  last  all  is  finished.  Sound  your 
horn,  guard  !     Manchester,  good-bye  !  we've  lost  an  hour  by  your 


TBOMAS  DE    QUINCEi  445 

criminal  conduct  at  the  post-office  :  which,  however,  though  I  do 
not  mean  to  part  with  a  serviceable  ground  of  complaint,  and  one 
which  really  is  such  for  the  horses,  to  me  secretly  is  an  advantage, 
since  it  compels  us  to  look  sharply  for  this  lost  hour  amongst  the 
next  eight  or  nine,  and  to  recover  it  (if  we  can)  at  the  rate  of  one 
mile  extra  per  hour.  Off  we  are  at  last,  and  at  eleven  miles  an 
hour ;  and  for  the  moment  I  detect  no  changes  in  the  energy  or 
in  the  skill  of  Cyclops. 

From  Manchester  to  Kendal,  which  virtually  (though  not  in  law) 
is  the  capital  of  Westmoreland,  there  were  at  this  time  seven  stages 
of  eleven  miles  each.  The  first  five  of  these,  counting  from  Man- 
chester, terminate  in  Lancaster ;  which  is  therefore  fifty-five  miles 
north  of  Manchester,  and  the  same  distance  exactly  from  Liver- 
pool. The  first  three  stages  terminate  in  Preston  (called,  by  way 
of  distinction  from  other  towns  of  that  name.  Proud  Preston) ;  at 
which  place  it  is  that  the  separate  roads  from  Liverpool  and  from 
Manchester  to  the  north  become  confluent.^  Within  these  first 
three  stages  lay  the  foundation,  the  progress,  and  termination  of 
our  night's  adventure.  During  the  first  stage,  I  found  out  that 
Cyclops  was  mortal :  he  was  liable  to  the  shocking  affection  of 
sleep  —  a  thing  which  previously  I  had  never  suspected.  If  a 
man  indulges  in  the  vicious  habit  of  sleeping,  all  the  skill  in  auri- 
gation  of  Apollo  himself,  with  the  horses  of  Aurora  to  execute  his 
notions,  avails  him  nothing.  "  Oh,  Cyclops  !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  thou 
art  mortal.  My  friend,  thou  snorest."  Through  the  first  eleven 
miles,  however,  this  infirmity — ^ which  I  grieve  to  say  that  he 
shared  with  the  whole  Pagan  Pantheon  —  betrayed  itself  only  by 
brief  snatches.  On  waking  up,  he  made  an  apology  for  himself 
which,  instead  of  mending  matters,  laid  open  a  gloomy  vista  of 
coming  disasters.  The  summer  assizes,  he  reminded  me,  were 
now  going  on  at  Lancaster  :  in  consequence  of  which  for  three 
nights  and  three  days  he  had  not  lain  down  on  a  bed.  During 
the  day  he  was  waiting,  for  his  own  summons  as  a  witness  on  the 

1  "  Conjluent"  .-  —  Suppose  a  capital  Y  (the  Pythagorean  letter)  :  Lancaster  is  at 
the  foot  of  this  letter;  Liverpool  at  the  top  of  the  right  branch  ;  Manchester  at  the 
top  of  the  left;  Proud  Preston  at  the  centre,  where  the  two  branches  unite.  It  is 
thirty-three  miles  along  either  of  the  two  branches  ;  it  is  twenty-two  miles  along  the 
stem,  —  viz.,  from  Preston  in  the  middle  to  Lancaster  at  the  root.  There's  a  lesson 
in  geography  for  the  reader! 


446  THE    VISION  OF  SUDDEN  DEATH 

trial  in  which  he  was  interested,  or  else,  lest  he  should  be  missing 
at  the  critical  moment,  was  drinking  with  the  other  witnesses  under 
the  pastoral  surveillance  of  the  attorneys.  During  the  night,  or 
that  part  of  it  which  at  sea  would  form  the  middle  watch,  he  was 
driving.  This  explanation  certainly  accounted  for  his  drowsiness, 
but  in  a  way  which  made  it  much  more  alarming  ;  since  now,  after 
several  days'  resistance  to  this  infirmity,  at  length  he  was  steadily 
giving  way.  Throughout  the  second  stage  he  grew  more  and 
more  drowsy.  In  the  second  mile  of  the  third  stage  he  surrendered 
himself  finally  and  without  a  struggle  to  his  perilous  temptation. 
All  his  past  resistance  had  but  deepened  the  weight  of  this  final 
oppression.  Seven  atmospheres  of  sleep  rested  upon  him  ;  and, 
to  consummate  the  case,  our  worthy  guard,  after  singing  "  Love 
amongst  the  Roses  "  for  perhaps  thirty  times,  without  invitation 
and  without  applause,  had  in  revenge  moodily  resigned  himself 
to  slumber  — not  so  deep,  doubtless,  as  the  coachman's,  but 
deep  enough  for  mischief.  And  thus  at  last,  about  ten  miles 
from  Preston,  it  came  about  that  I  found  myself  left  in  charge 
of  his  Majesty's  London  and  Glasgow  mail,  then  running  at  the 
least  twelve  miles  an  hour. 

What  made  this  negligence  less  criminal  than  else  it  must 
have  been  thought  was  the  condition  of  the  roads  at  night  dur- 
ing the  assizes.  At  that  time,  all  the  law  business  of  populous 
Liverpool,  and  also  of  populous  Manchester,  with  its  vast  cinc- 
ture of  populous  rural  districts,  was  called  up  by  ancient  visage 
to  the  tribunal  of  Lilliputian  Lancaster.  To  break  up  this  old 
traditional  usage  required,  i,  a  conflict  with  powerful  established 
interests,  2,  a  large  system  of  new  arrangements,  and  3,  a  new 
parliamentary  statute.  But  as  yet  this  change  was  merely  in 
contemplation.  As  things  were  at  present,  twice  in  the  year  ^  so 
vast  a  body  of  business  rolled  northwards  from  the  southern 
quarter  of  the  county  that  for  a  fortnight  at  least  it  occupied  the 
severe  exertions  of  two  judges  in  its  despatch.  The  conse- 
quence of  this  was  that  every  horse  available  for  such  a  service, 
along  the  whole  line  of  road,  was  exhausted  in  carrying  down 
the  multitudes  of  people  who  were  parties  to  the  different  suits. 

1  "  Twice  in  the  year  "  :  — There  were  at  that  time  only  two  assizes  even  in  the 
most  populous  counties  —  viz.,  the  Lent  Assizes  and  the  Summer  Assizes. 


THOMAS  DE    QUINCEY  447 

By  sunset,  therefore,  it  usually  happened  that,  through  utter 
exhaustion  amongst  men  and  horses,  the  road  sank  into  profound 
silence.  Except  the  exhaustion  in  the  vast  adjacent  county  of 
York  from  a  contested  election,  no  such  silence  succeeding  to 
no  such  fiery  uproar  was  ever  witnessed  in  England. 

On  this  occasion  the  usual  silence  and  solitude  prevailed  along 
the  road.  Not  a  hoof  nor  a  wheel  was  to  be  heard.  And,  to 
strengthen  this  false  luxurious  confidence  in  the  noiseless  roads, 
it  happened  also  that  the  night  was  one  of  peculiar  solemnity 
and  peace.  For  my  own  part,  though  slightly  alive  to  the  possi- 
bilities of  peril,  I  had  so  far  yielded  to  the  influence  of  the 
mighty  calm  as  to  sink  into  a  profound  reverie.  The  month 
was  August;  in  the  middle  of  which  lay  my  own  birthday  —  a 
festival  to  every  thoughtful  man  suggesting  solemn  and  often 
sigh-born^  thoughts.  The  county  was  my  own  native  county  — 
upon  which,  in  its  southern  section,  more  than  upon  any  equal 
area  known  to  man  past  or  present,  had  descended  the  original 
curse  of  labour  in  its  heaviest  form,  not  mastering  the  bodies 
only  of  men,  as  of  slaves,  or  criminals  in  mines,  but  working 
through  the  fiery  will.  Upon  no  equal  space  of  earth  was,  or 
ever  had  been,  the  same  energy  of  human  power  put  forth  daily. 
At  this  particular  season  also  of  the  assizes,  that  dreadful  hurri- 
cane of  flight  and  pursuit,  as  it  might  have  seemed  to  a  stranger, 
which  swept  to  and  from  Lancaster  all  day  long,  hunting  the 
county  up  and  down,  and  regularly  subsiding  back  into  silence 
about  sunset,  could  not  fail  (when  united  with  this  permanent 
distinction  of  Lancashire  as  the  very  metropolis  and  citadel  of 
labour)  to  point  the  thoughts  pathetically  upon  that  counter- 
vision  of  rest,  of  saintly  repose  from  strife  and  sorrow,  towards 
which,  as  to  their  secret  haven,  the  profounder  aspirations  of 
man's  heart  are  in  solitude  continually  travelling.  Obliquely 
upon  our  left  we  were  nearing  the  sea ;  which  also  must,  under 
the  present  circumstances,  be  repeating  the  general  state  of 
halcyon  repose.  The  sea,  the  atmosphere,  the  light,  bore  each 
an  orchestral  part  in  this  universal  lull.  Moonlight  and  the 
first  timid  tremblings  of  the  dawn  were  by  this  time  blending ; 

1  "  Sigh-born  "  : —  I  owe  the  sugsjestion  of  this  word  to  an  obscure  remembrance 
of  a  beautiful  phrase  in  "  Giraldus  Cambrcnsis  "  -  viz.  suspiriosce  cogltationes. 


448  THE    VISION  OF  SUDDEN  DEATH 

and  the  blendings  were  brought  into  a  still  more  exquisite  state 
of  unity  by  a  slight  silvery  mist,  motionless  and  dreamy,  that 
covered  the  woods  and  fields,  but  with  a  veil  of  equable  trans- 
parency. Except  the  feet  of  our  own  horses,  —  which,  running 
on  a  sandy  margin  of  the  road,  made  but  little  disturbance,  — 
there  was  no  sound  abroad.  In  the  clouds  and  on  the  earth 
prevailed  the  same  majestic  peace  ;  and,  in  spite  of  all  that  the 
villain  of  a  schoolmaster  has  done  for  the  ruin  of  our  sublimer 
thoughts,  which  are  the  thoughts  of  our  infancy,  we  still  believe 
in  no  such  nonsense  as  a  limited  atmosphere.  Whatever  we 
may  swear  with  our  false  feigning  lips,  in  our  faithful  hearts  we 
.still  beheve,  and  must  for  ever  believe,  in  fields  of  air  traversing 
the  total  gulf  between  earth  and  the  central  heavens.  Still,  in 
the  confidence  of  children  that  tread  without  fear  every  chamber 
in  their  father's  house,  and  to  whom  no  door  is  closed,  we,  in 
that  Sabbatic  vision  which  sometimes  is  revealed  for  an  hour 
upon  nights  like  this,  ascend  with  easy  steps  from  the  sorrow- 
stricken  fields  of  earth  upwards  to  the  sandals  of  God. 

Suddenly,  from  thoughts  like  these  I  was  awakened  to  a  sullen 
sound,  as  of  some  motion  on  the  distant  road.  It  stole  upon  the 
air  for  a  moment ;  I  Ustened  in  awe  ;  but  then  it  died  away.  Once 
roused,  however,  I  could  not  but  observe  with  alarm  the  quickened 
motion  of  our  horses.  Ten  years'  experience  had  made  my  eye 
learned  in  the  valuing  of  motion ;  and  I  saw  that  we  were  now 
running  thirteen  miles  an  hour.  I  pretend  to  no  presence  of  mind. 
On  the  contrary,  my  fear  is  that  I  am  miserably  and  shamefully 
deficient  in  that  quality  as  regards  action.  The  palsy  of  doubt 
and  distraction  hangs  like  some  guilty  weight  of  dark  unfathomed 
remembrances  upon  my  energies  when  the  signal  is  flying  for 
action.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  this  accursed  gift  I  have,  as 
regards  thought,  that  in  the  first  step  towards  the  possibility  of  a 
misfortune  I  see  its  total  evolution ;  in  the  radix  of  the  series  I 
see  too  certainly  and  too  instantly  its  entire  expansion;  in  the 
first  syllable  of  the  dreadful  sentence  I  read  already  the  last.  It 
was  not  that  I  feared  for  ourselves.  Us  our  bulk  and  impetus 
charmed  against  peril  in  any  collision.  And  I  had  ridden  through 
too  many  hundreds  of  perils  that  were  frightful  to  approach,  that 
were  matter  of  laughter  to  look  back  upon,  the  first  face__of  which 


THOMAS  DE   QUINCEY  449 

was  horror,  the  parting  face  a  jest  —  for  any  anxiety  to  rest  upon 
our  interests.  The  mail  was  not  built,  I  felt  assured,  nor  bespoke, 
that  could  betray  me  who  trusted  to  its  protection.  But  any  car- 
riage that  we  could  meet  would  be  frail  and  light  in  comparison 
of  ourselves.  And  I  remarked  this  ominous  accident  of  our  situa- 
tion, —  we  were  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  road.  But  then,  it  may 
be  said,  the  other  party,  if  other  there  was,  might  also  be  on  the 
wrong  side  ;  and  two  wrongs  might  make  a  right.  That  was  not 
likely.  The  same  motive  which  had  drawn  us  to  the  right-hand 
side  of  the  road  —  viz.,  the  luxury  of  the  soft  beaten  sand  as  con- 
trasted with  the  paved  centre  —  would  prove  attractive  to  others. 
The  two  adverse  carriages  would  therefore,  to  a  certainty,  be 
travelling  on  the  same  side ;  and  from  this  side,  as  not  being  ours 
in  law,  the  crossing  over  to  the  other  would,  of  course,  be  looked 
for  from  tis}  Our  lamps,  still  lighted,  would  give  the  impression 
of  vigilance  on  our  part.  And  every  creature  that  met  us  would 
rely  upon  us  for  quartering.^  All  this,  and  if  the  separate  Hnks  of 
the  anticipation  had  been  a  thousand  times  more,  I  saw,  not  dis- 
cursively, or  by  effort,  or  by  succession,  but  by  one  flash  of  horrid 
simultaneous  intuition. 

Under  this  steady  though  rapid  anticipation  of  the  evil  which 
might  be  gathering  ahead,  ah  !  what  a  sullen  mystery  of  fear,  what 
a  sigh  of  woe,  was  that  which  stole  upon  the  air,  as  again  the  far- 
ofif  sound  of  a  wheel  was  heard  !  A  whisper  it  was  —  a  whisper 
from,  perhaps,  four  miles  off — secretly  announcing  a  ruin  that, 
being  foreseen,  was  not  the  less  inevitable  ;  that,  being  known, 
was  not  therefore  healed.  What  could  be  done  —  who  was  it  that 
could  do  it  —  to  check  the  storm-flight  of  these  maniacal  horses? 
Could  I  not  seize  the  reins  from  the  grasp  of  the  slumbering 
coachman?  You,  reader,  think  that  it  would  have  been  in  yojir 
power  to  do  so.  And  I  quarrel  not  with  your  estimate  of  your- 
self.    But,  from  the  way  in  which  the  coachman's  hand  was  viced 

1  It  is  true  that,  according  to  the  law  of  the  case  as  established  by  legal  prece- 
dents, all  carriages  were  required  to  give  way  before  royal  equipages,  and  there- 
fore before  the  mail  as  one  of  Ihem.  But  this  only  increased  the  danger,  as  being 
a  regulation  very  imperfectly  made  known,  very  unequally  enforced,  and  therefore 
often  embarrassing  the  movements  on  both  sides. 

2  "  Quartering"  :  —  This  is  the  technical  word,  and,  I  presume,  derived  from  the 
French  cartayer,  to  evade  a  rut  or  any  obstacle. 

2G 


450  THE    VISION  OF  SUDDEN  DEATH 

between  his  upper  and  lower  thigh,  this  was  impossible.  Easy  was 
it?  See,  then,  that  bronze  equestrian  statue.  The  cruel  rider 
has  kept  the  bit  in  his  horse's  mouth  for  two  centuries.  Unbridle 
him  for  a  minute,  if  you  please,  and  wash  his  mouth  with  water. 
Easy  was  it?  Unhorse  me,  then,  that  imperial  rider;  knock  me 
those  marble  feet  from  those  marble  stirrups  of  Charlemagne. 

The  sounds  ahead  strengthened,  and  were  now  too  clearly  the 
sounds  of  wheels.  Who  and  what  could  it  be  ?  Was  it  industry 
in  a  taxed  cart?  Was  it  youthful  gaiety  in  a  gig?  Was  it  sorrow 
that  loitered,  or  joy  that  raced?  For  as  yet  the  snatches  of  sound 
were  too  intermitting,  from  distance,  to  decipher  the  character  of 
the  motion.  Whoever  were  the  travellers,  something  must  be 
done  to  warn  them.  Upon  the  other  party  rests  the  active 
responsibility,  but  upon  us  —  and,  woe  is  me  !  that  us  was  reduced 
to  my  frail  opium-shattered  self —  rests  the  responsibility  of  warn- 
ing. Yet,  how  should  this  be  accomplished  ?  Might  I  not  sound 
the  guard's  horn  ?  Already,  on  the  first  thought,  I  was  making  my 
way  over  the  roof  of  the  guard's  seat.  But  this,  from  the  accident 
which  I  have  mentioned,  of  the  foreign  mails  being  piled  upon  the 
roof,  was  a  difficult  and  even  dangerous  attempt  to  one  cramped 
by  nearly  three  hundred  miles  of  outside  travelling.  And,  fortu- 
nately, before  I  had  lost  much  time  in  the  attempt,  our  frantic 
horses  swept  round  an  angle  of  the  road  which  opened  upon  us 
that  final  stage  where  the  collision  must  be  accomplished  and  the 
catastrophe  sealed.  All  was  apparently  finished.  The  court  was 
sitting ;  the  case  was  heard  ;  the  judge  had  finished ;  and  only 
the  verdict  was  yet  in  arrear. 

Before  us  lay  an  avenue  straight  as  an  arrow,  six  hundred  yards, 
perhaps,  in  length  ;  and  the  umbrageous  trees,  which  rose  in  a 
regular  line  from  either  side,  meeting  high  overhead,  gave  to  it  the 
character  of  a  cathedral  aisle.  These  trees  lent  a  deeper  solem- 
nity to  the  early  light ;  but  there  was  still  light  enough  to  perceive, 
at  the  further  end  of  this  Gothic  aisle,  a  frail  reedy  gig,  in  which 
were  seated  a  young  man,  and  by  his  side  a  young  lady.  Ah, 
young  sir  !  what  are  you  about  ?  If  it  is  requisite  that  you  should 
whisper  your  communications  to  this  young  lady —  though  really  I 
see  nobody,  at  an  hour  and  on  a  road  so  solitary,  likely  to  over- 
hear you  —  is  it  therefore  requisite  that  you  should  carry  your  lips 


THOMAS  DE    QUINCE  Y  45  I 

forward  to  hers  ?  The  Httle  carriage  is  creeping  on  at  one  mile  an 
hour ;  and  the  parties  within  it,  being  thus  tenderly  engaged,  are 
naturally  bending  down  their  heads.  Between  them  and  eternity, 
to  all  human  calculation,  there  is  but  a  minute  and  a  half.  Oh 
heavens!  what  is  it  that  I  shall  do?  Speaking  or  acting,  what 
help  can  I  offer?  Strange  it  is,  and  to  a  mere  auditor  of  the  tale 
might  seem  laughable,  that  I  should  need  a  suggestion  from  the 
Jiiad  to  prompt  the  sole  resource  that  remained.  Yet  so  it  was. 
Suddenly  I  remembered  the  shout  of  Achilles,  and  its  effect.  But 
could  I  pretend  to  shout  like  the  son  of  Peleus,  aided  by  Pallas? 
No  :  but  then  I  needed  not  the  shout  that  should  alarm  all  Asia 
militant ;  such  a  shout  would  suffice  as  might  carry  terror  into 
the  hearts  of  two  thoughtless  young  people  and  one  gig-horse.  I 
shouted  —  and  the  young  man  heard  me  not.  A  second  time  I 
shouted  —  and  now  he  heard  me,  for  now  he  raised  his  head. 

Here,  then,  all  had  been  done  that,  by  me,  could  be  done ; 
more  on  my  part  was  not  possible.  Mine  had  been  the  first 
step ;  the  second  was  for  the  young  man ;  the  third  was  for  God. 
If,  said  I,  this  stranger  is  a  brave  man,  and  if  indeed  he  loves 
the  young  girl  at  his  side  —  or,  loving  her  not,  if  he  feels  the 
obligation,  pressing  upon  every  man  worthy  to  be  called  a  man, 
of  doing  his  utmost  for  a  woman  confided  to  his  protection  — 
he  will  at  least  make  some  effort  to  save  her.  If  that  fails,  he 
will  not  perish  the  more,  or  by  a  death  more  cruel,  for  having 
made  it ;  and  he  will  die  as  a  brave  man  should,  with  his  face  to 
the  danger,  and  with  his  arm  about  the  woman  that  he  sought  in 
vain  to  save.  But,  if  he  makes  no  effort,  —  shrinking  without  a 
struggle  from  his  duty,  —  he  himself  will  not  the  less  certainly 
perish  for  this  baseness  of  poltroonery.  He  will  die  no  less  :  and 
why  not?  Wherefore  should  we  grieve  that  there  is  one  craven 
less  in  the  world  ?  No  ;  kt  him  perish,  without  a  pitying  thought 
of  ours  wasted  upon  him ;  and,  in  that  case,  all  our  grief  will  be 
reserved  for  the  fate  of  the  helpless  girl  who  now,  upon  the  least 
shadow  of  failure  in  him,  must  by  the  fiercest  of  translations  — 
must  without  time  for  a  prayer  —  must  within  seventy  seconds  — 
stand  before  the  judgment-seat  of  God. 

But  craven  he  was  not :  sudden  had  been  the  call  upon  him, 
and  sudden  was  his  answer  to  the  call.    He  saw,  he  heard,  he  com- 


452  THE    VISION  OF  SUDDEN  DEATH 

prehended,  the  ruin  that  was  coming  down  :  already  its  gloomy 
shadow  darkened  above  him ;  and  already  he  was  measuring  his 
strength  to  deal  with  it.  Ah  !  what  a  vulgar  thing  does  courage 
seem  when  we  see  nations  buying  it  and  selhng  it  for  a  shilling 
a-day :  ah  !  what  a  sublime  thing  does  courage  seem  when  some 
fearful  summons  on  the  great  deeps  of  life  carries  a  man,  as  if 
running  before  a  hurricane,  up  to  the  giddy  crest  of  some  tumultu- 
ous crisis  from  which  lie  two  courses,  and  a  voice  says  to  him 
audibly,  "  One  way  lies  hope ;  take  the  other,  and  mourn  for 
ever  !  "  How  grand  a  triumph  if,  even  then,  amidst  the  raving 
of  all  around  him,  and  the  frenzy  of  the  danger,  the  man  is  able 
to  confront  his  situation  —  is  able  to  retire  for  a  moment  into 
solitude  with  God,  and  to  seek  his  counsel  from  Him  ! 

For  seven  seconds,  it  might  be,  of  his  seventy,  the  stranger 
settled  his  countenance  steadfastly  upon  us,  as  if  to  search  and 
value  every  element  in  the  conflict  before  him.  For  five  seconds 
more  of  his  seventy  he  sat  immovably,  like  one  that  mused  on 
some  great  purpose.  For  five  more,  perhaps,  he  sat  with  eyes 
upraised,  like  one  that  prayed  in  sorrow,  under  some  extremity 
of  doubt,  for  light  that  should  guide  him  to  the  better  choice. 
Then  suddenly  he  rose  ;  stood  upright ;  and,  by  a  powerful  strain 
upon  the  reins,  raising  his  horse's  fore-feet  from  the  ground,  he 
slewed  him  round  on  the  pivot  of  his  hind-legs,  so  as  to  plant 
the  little  equipage  in  a  position  nearly  at  right  angles  to  ours. 
Thus  far  his  condition  was  not  improved ;  except  as  a  first  step 
had  been  taken  towards  the  possibility  of  a  second.  If  rio  more 
were  done,  nothing  was  done ;  for  the  little  carriage  still  occupied 
the  very  centre  of  our  path,  though  in  an  altered  direction.  Yet 
even  now  it  may  not  be  too  late:  fifteen  of  the  seventy  seconds 
may  still  be  unexhausted  ;  and  one  almighty  bound  may  avail  to  clear 
the  ground.  Hurry,  then,  hurry  !  for  the  flying  moments  —  they 
hurry.  Oh,  hurry,  hurry,  my  brave  young  man  !  for  the  cruel  hoofs 
of  our  horses  —  they  also  hurry  !  Fast  are  the  flying  moments, 
faster  are  the  hoofs  of  our  horses.  But  fear  not  for  him,  if  human 
energy  can  suffice  ;  faithful  was  he  that  drove  to  his  terrific  duty ; 
faithful  was  the  horse  to  his  command.  One  blow,  one  impulse 
given  with  voice  and  hand,  by  the  stranger,  one  rush  from  the 
horse,  one  bound  as  if  in  the  act  of  rising  to  a  fence,  landed  the 


THOMAS  DE   QUINCEY  453 

docile  creature's  fore-feet  upon  the  crown  or  arching  centre  of 
the  road.  The  larger  half  of  the  little  equipage  had  then  cleared 
our  over-towering  shadow  :  that  was  evident  even  to  my  own  agi- 
tated sight.  But  it  mattered  little  that  one  wreck  should  float  off  in 
safety  if  upon  the  wreck  that  perished  were  embarked  the  human 
freightage.  The  rear  part  of  the  carriage  —  was  that  certainly  be- 
yond the  line  of  absolute  ruin?  What  power  could  answer  the  ques- 
tion? Glance  of  eye,  thought  of  man,  wing  of  angel,  which  of 
these  had  speed  enough  to  sweep  between  the  question  and  the 
answer,  and  divide  the  one  from  the  other  ?  Light  does  not  tread 
upon  the  steps  of  light  more  indivisibly  than  did  our  all-conquer- 
ing arrival  upon  the  escaping  efforts  of  the  gig.  That  must  the 
young  man  have  felt  too  plainly.  His  back  was  now  turned  to  us ; 
not  by  sight  could  he  any  longer  communicate  with  the  peril  •  but, 
by  the  dreadful  rattle  of  our  harness,  too  truly  had  his  ear  been 
instructed  that  all  was  finished  as  regarded  any  effort  of  his.  Al- 
ready in  resignation  he  had  rested  from  his  struggle ;  and  perhaps 
in  his  heart  he  was  whispering,  '*  Father,  which  art  in  heaven,  do 
Thou  finish  above  what  I  on  earth  have  attempted."  Faster  than 
ever  mill-race  we  ran  past  them  in  our  inexorable  flight.  Oh, 
raving  of  hurricanes  that  must  have  sounded  in  their  young  ears 
at  the  moment  of  our  transit !  Even  in  that  moment  the  thunder 
of  collision  spoke  aloud.  Either  with  the  swingle-bar,  or  with  the 
haunch  of  our  near  leader,  we  had  struck  the  off-wheel  of  the  httle 
gig;  which  stood  rather  obliquely,  and  not  quite  so  far  advanced 
as  to  be  accurately  parallel  with  the  near-wheel.  The  blow,  from 
the  fury  of  our  passage,  resounded  terrifically.  I  rose  in  horror,  to 
gaze  upon  the  ruins  we  might  have  caused.  From  my  elevated 
station  I  looked  down,  and  looked  back  upon  the  scene ;  which 
in  a  moment  told  its  own  tale,  and  wrote  all  its  records  on  my 
heart  for  ever. 

Here  was  the  map  of  the  passion  that  now  had  finished.  The 
horse  was  planted  immovably,  with  his  fore-feet  upon  the  paved 
crest  of  the  central  road.  He  of  the  whole  party  might  be  sup- 
posed untouched  by  the  passion  of  death.  The  little  cany  car- 
riage —  partly,  perhaps,  from  the  violent  torsion  of  the  wheels  in 
its  recent  movement,  partly  from  the  thundering  blow  we  had  given 
to  it  —  as  if  it  sympathised  with  human  horror,  was  all  alive  with 


454  THE    VISION  OF  SUDDEN  DEATH 

tremblings  and  shiverings.  The  young  man  trembled  not,  nor 
shivered.  He  sat  like  a  rock.  But  his  was  the  steadiness  of  agi- 
tation frozen  into  rest  by  horror.  As  yet  he  dared  not  to  look 
round ;  for  he  knew  that,  if  anything  remained  to  do,  by  him  it 
could  no  longer  be  done.  And  as  yet  he  knew  not  for  certain  if 
their  safety  were  accomplished.     But  the  lady 

But  the  lady !  Oh,  heavens  !  will  that  spectacle  ever  depart 

from  my  dreams,  as  she  rose  and  sank  upon  her  seat,  sank  and 
rose,  threw  up  her  arms  wildly  to  heaven,  clutched  at  some  vision- 
ary object  in  the  air,  fainting,  praying,  raving,  despairing?  Fig- 
ure to  yourself,  reader,  the  elements  of  the  case  ;  suffer  me  to 
recall  before  your  mind  the  circumstances  of  that  unparalleled 
situation.  From  the  silence  and  deep  peace  of  this  saintly  sum- 
mer night  —  from  the  pathetic  blending  of  this  sweet  moonlight, 
dawnlight,  dreamlight  —  from  the  manly  tenderness  of  this  flatter- 
ing, whispering,  murmuring  love  —  suddenly  as  from  the  woods 
and  fields  —  suddenly  as  from  the  chambers  of  the  air  opening  in 
revelation  —  suddenly  as  from  the  ground  yav/ning  at  her  feet, 
leaped  upon  her,  with  the  flashing  of  cataracts,  Death  the  crowned 
phantom,  with  all  the  equipage  of  his  terrors,  and  the  tiger  roar  of 
his  voice. 

The  moments  were  numbered ;  the  strife  was  finished ;  the 
vision  was  closed.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  our  flying  horses 
had  carried  us  to  the  teVmination  of  the  umbrageous  aisle  ;  at  the 
right  angles  we  wheeled  into  our  former  direction  ;  the  turn  of  the 
road  carried  the  scene  out  of  my  eyes  in  an  instant^  and  swept  it 
into  my  dreams  for  ever. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  455 

AN    APOLOGY    FOR    IDLERS 

ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON 
[From  Virginibus  Puerisque  and  Other  Papers,  1881.] 

^'  BOSWELL:  We  grow  weary  when  idle," 

"Johnson:  That  is,  sir,  because  others  being  busy,  we  want  company;  but 
if  we  were  idle,  there  would  be  no  growing  weary;  we  should  all  entertain 
one  another." 

Just  now,  when  every  one  is  bound,  under  pain  of  a  decree  in 
absence  convicting  tliem  of  /,?j'^-respectability,  to  enter  on  some 
lucrative  profession,  and  labour  therein  with  something  not  far 
short  of  enthusiasm,  a  cry  from  the  opposite  party  who  are  con- 
tent when  they  have  enough,  and  hke  to  look  on  and  enjoy  in  the 
mean  while,  savours  a  litde  of  bravado  and  gasconade.  And  yet 
this  should  not  be.  Idleness  so  called,  which  does  not  consist  in 
doing  nothing,  but  in  doing  a  great  deal  not  recognized  in  the 
dogmatic  formularies  of  the  ruling  class,  has  as  good  a  right  to 
state  its  position  as  industry  itself.  It  is  admitted  that  the  pres- 
ence of  people  who  refuse  to  enter  in  the  great  handicap  race  for 
sixpenny  pieces,  is  at  once  an  insult  and  a  disenchantment  for 
those  who  do.  A  fine  fellow  (as  we  see  so  many)  takes  his  deter- 
mination, votes  for  the  sixpences,,  and  in  the  emphatic  American- 
ism, "goes  for"  them.  And  while  such  an  one  is  ploughing 
distressfully  up  the  road,  it  is  not  hard  to  understand  his  resent- 
ment, when  he  perceives  cool  persons  in  the  meadows  by  the  way- 
side, lying  with  a  handkerchief  over  their  ears  and  a  glass  at  their 
elbow.  Alexander  is  touched  in  a  very  delicate  place  by  the  dis- 
regard of  Diogenes.  Where  was  the  glory  of  having  taken  Rome 
for  these  tumultuous  barbarians,  who  poured  into  the  Senate-house, 
and  found  the  Fathers  sitting  silent  and  unmoved  by  their  success  ? 
It  is  a  sore  thing  to  have  laboured  along  and  scaled  the  arduous 
hill-tops,  and  when  all  is  done,  find  humanity  indifferent  to  your 
achievement.  Hence  physicists  condemn  the  unphysical ;  finan- 
ciers have  only  a  superficial  toleration  for  those  who  know  little  of 
stocks  ;  literary  persons  despise  the  unlettered ;  and  people  of  all 
pursuits  combine  to  disparage  those  who  have  none. 


456  AN  APOLOGY  FOR  IDLERS 

But  though  this  is  one  difficulty  of  the  subject,  it  is  not  the 
greatest.  You  could  not  be  put  in  prison  for  speaking  against  in- 
dustry, but  you  can  be  sent  to  Coventry  for  speaking  like  a  fool. 
The  greatest  difficulty  with  most  subjects  is  to  do  them  well; 
therefore,  please  to  remember  this  is  an  apology.  It  is  certain 
that  much  may  be  judiciously  argued  in  favour  of  diligence  ;  only 
there  is  something  to  be  said  against  it,  and  that  is  what,  on  the 
present  occasion,  I  have  to  say.  To  state  one  argument  is  not 
necessarily  to  be  deaf  to  all  others,  and  that  a  man  has  written  a 
book  of  travels  in  Montenegro,  is  no  reason  why  he  should  never 
have  been  to  Richmond. 

It  is  surely  beyond  a  doubt  that  people  should  be  a  good  deal 
idle  in  youth.  For  though  here  and  there  a  Lord  Macaulay  may 
escape  from  school  honours  with  all  his  wits  about  him,  most  boys 
pay  so  dear  for  their  medals  that  they  never  afterwards  have  a 
shot  in  their  locker,  and  begin  the  world  bankrupt.  And  the  same 
holds  true  during  all  the  time  a  lad  is  educating  himself,  or  suffers 
others  to  educate  him.  It  must  have  been  a  very  fooHsh  old  gen- 
tleman who  addressed  Johnson  at  Oxford  in  these  words  :  "  Young 
man,  ply  your  book  diligently  now,  and  acquire  a  stock  of  knowl- 
edge ;  for  when  years  come  upon  you,  you  will  find  that  poring 
upon  books  will  be  but  an  irksome  task."  The  old  gentleman 
seems  to  have  been  unaware  that  many  other  things  besides  read- 
ing grow  irksome,  and  not  a  few  become  impossible,  by  the  time 
a  man  has  to  use  spectacles  and  cannot  walk  without  a  stick. 
Books  are  good  enough  in  their  own  way,  but  they  are  a  mighty 
bloodless  substitute  for  life.  It  seems  a  pity  to  sit,  like  the  Lady 
of  Shalott,  peering  into  a  mirror,  with  your  back  turned  on  all  the 
bustle  and  glamour  of  reality.  And  if  a  man  reads  very  hard,  as 
the  old  anecdote  reminds  us,  he  will  have  little  time  for  thought. 

If  you  look  back  on  your  own  education,  I  am  sure  it  will  not 
be  the  full,  vivid,  instructive  hours  of  truantry  that  you  regret ; 
you  would  rather  cancel  some  lack-lustre  periods  between  sleep 
and  waking  in  the  class.  For  my  own  part,  I  have  attended  a 
good  many  lectures  in  my  time.  I  still  remember  that  the  spin- 
ning of  a  top  is  a  case  of  Kinetic  Stability.  I  still  remember  that 
Emphyteusis  is  not  a  disease,  nor  Stillicide  a  crime.  But  though 
I  would  not  willingly  part  with  such  scraps  of  science,  I  do  not  set 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  4<,y 

the  same  store  by  them  as  by  certain  other  odds  and  ends  that  I 
came  by  in  the  open  street  while  I  was  playing  truant.  This  is 
not  the  moment  to  dilate  on  that  mighty  place  of  education  which 
was  the  favourite  school  of  Dickens  and  of  Balzac,  and  turns  out 
yearly  many  inglorious  masters  in  the  Science  of  the  Aspects  of 
Life.  Suffice  it  to  say  this  :  if  a  lad  does  not  learn  in  the  streets, 
it  is  because  he  has  no  faculty  of  learning.  Nor  is  the  truant  al- 
ways in  the  streets,  for  if  he  prefers,  he  may  go  out  by  the  gar- 
dened suburbs  into  the  country.  He  may  pitch  on  some  tuft  of 
lilacs  over  a  burn,  and  smoke  estimable  pipes  to  the  tune  of  the 
water  on  the  stones.  A  bird  will  sing  in  the  thicket.  And  there 
he  may  fall  into  a  vein  of  kindly  thought,  and  see  things  in  a  new 
perspective.  Why,  if  this  be  not  education,  what  is?  We  may 
conceive  Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman  accosting  such  an  one,  and  the 
conversation  that  should  thereupon  ensue  :  — 

"How  now,  young  fellow,  what  dost  thou  here?" 

"Truly,  sir,  I  take  mine  ease." 

"Is  not  this  the  hour  of  the  class?  and  should'st  thou  not  be 
plying  thy  Book  with  diligence,  to  the  end  thou  mayest  obtain 
knowledge?  " 

"  Nay,  but  thus  also  I  follow  after  Learning,  by  your  leave." 

"  Learning,  quotha  !  After  what  fashion,  I  pray  thee  ?  Is  it 
mathematics?," 

"  No,  to  be  sure." 

"  Is  it  metaphysics?  " 

"Nor  that." 

"  Is  it  some  language  ?  " 

"  Nay,  it  is  no  language." 

"  Is  it  a  trade?" 

"  Nor  a  trade  neither." 

"Why,  then,  what  is't?" 

"  Indeed,  sir,  as  a  time  may  soon  come  for  me  to  go  upon  Pil- 
grimage, I  am  desirous  to  note  what  is  commonly  done  by  persons 
in  my  case,  and  where  are  the  ugliest  Sloughs  and  Thickets  on  the 
Road  ;  as  also,  what  manner  of  Staff  is  of  the  best  service.  More- 
over, I  lie  here,  by  this  water,  to  learn  by  root-of-heart  a  lesson 
which  my  master  teaches  me  to  call  Peace,  or  Contentment.". 

Hereupon  Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman  was  much  comipoved   with 


458  AN  APOLOGY  FOR  IDLERS 

passion,  and  shaking  his  cane  with  a  very  threatful  countenance, 
broke  forth  upon  tliis  wise  :  "  Learning,  quotha  !  "  said  he ;  "I 
would  have  all  such  rogues  scourged  by  the  Hangman  !  " 

And  so  he  would  go  his  way,  ruffling  out  his  cravat  with  a  crackle 
of  starch,  like  a  turkey  when  it  spreads  its  feathers. 

Now  this,  of  Mr.  Wiseman's,  is  the  common  opinion.  A  fact  is 
not  called  a  fact,  but  a  piece  of  gossip,  if  it  does  not  fall  into  one  of 
your  scholastic  categories.  An  inquiry  must  be  in  some  acknowl- 
edged direction,  with  a  name  to  go  by ;  or  else  you  are  not  inquir- 
ing at  all,  only  lounging  ;  and  the  workhouse  is  too  good  for  you. 
It  is  supposed  that  all  knowledge  is  at  the  bottom  of  a  well,  or  the 
far  end  of  a  telescope.  Sainte-Beuve,  as  he  grew  older,  came  to 
regard  all  experience  as  a  single  great  book,  in  which  to  study 
for  a  few  years  ere  we  go  hence  ;  and  it  seemed  all  one  to  him 
whether  you  should  read  in  Chapter  xx.,  which  is  the  differential 
calculus,  or  in  Chapter  xxxix.,  which  is  hearing  the  band  play 
in  the  gardens.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  an  intelligent  person,  look- 
ing out  of  his  eyes  and  hearkening  in  his  ears,  with  a  smile  on  his 
face  all  the  time,  will  get  more  true  education  than  many  another 
in  a  life  of  heroic  vigils.  There  is  certainly  some  chill  and  arid 
knowledge  to  be  found  upon  the  summits  of  formal  and  laborious 
science  ;  but  it  is  all  round  about  you,  and  for  the  trouble  of  look- 
ing, that  you  will  acquire  the  warm  and  palpitating  facts  of  life. 
While  others  are  filling  their  memory  with  a  lumber  of  words,  one- 
half  of  which  they  will  forget  before  the  week  be  out,  your  truant 
may  learn  some  really  useful  art :  to  play  the  fiddle,  to  know  a  good 
cigar,  or  to  speak  with  ease  and  opportunity  to  all  varieties  of  men. 
Many  who  have  "  plied  their  book  diligently,"  and  know  all  about 
some  one  branch  or  another  of  accepted  lore,  come  out  of  the  study 
with  an  ancient  and  owl-like  demeanour,  and  prove  dry,  stockish, 
and  dyspeptic  in  all  the  better  and  brighter  parts  of  life.  Many 
make  a  large  fortune,  who  remain  underbred  and  pathetically 
stupid  to  the  last.  And  meantime  there  goes  the  idler,  who  be- 
gan life  along  with  them  —  by  your  leave,  a  different  picture.  He 
has  had  time  to  take  care  of  his  health  and  his  spirits ;  he  has 
been  a  great  deal  in  the  open  air,  which  is  the  most  salutary  of 
all  things  for  both  body  and  mind  j  and  if  he  has  never  read  the 
great  Book  in  very  recondite  places,  he  has  dipped  into  it  and 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON'  4^9 

skimmed  it  over  to  excellent  purpose.  Might  not  the  student 
afford  some  Hebrew  roots,  and  the  business  man  some  of  his 
half-crowns,  for  a  share  of  the  idler's  knowledge  of  life  at  large, 
and  Art  of  Living?  Nay,  and  the  idler  has  another  and  more 
important  quality  than  these.  I  mean  his  wisdom.  He  who  has 
much  looked  on  at  the  cliildish  satisfaction  of  other  people  in 
their  hobbies,  will  regard  his  own  with  only  a  very  ironical  indul- 
gence. He  will  not  be  heard  among  the  dogmatists.  He  will 
have  a  great  and  cool  allowance  for  all  sorts  of  people  and 
opinions.  If  he  finds  no  out-of-the-way  truths,  he  will  identify 
himself  with  no  very  burning  falsehood.  His  way  takes  him  along 
a  by-road  not  much  frequented,  but  very  even  and  pleasant,  which 
is  called  Commonplace  Lane,  and  leads  to  the  Belvedere  of  Com- 
mon-sense. Thence  he  shall  command  an  agreeable,  if  no  very 
noble  prospect ;  and  while  others  behold  the  East  and  West,  the 
Devil  and  the  Sunrise,  he  will  be  contentedly  aware  of  a  sort  of 
morning  hour  upon  all  sublunary  things,  with  an  army  of  shadows 
running  speedily  and  in  many  different  directions  into  the  great 
daylight  of  Eternity.  The  shadows  and  the  generations,  the  shrill 
doctors  and  the  plangent  wars,  go  by  into  ultimate  silence  and 
emptiness ;  but  underneath  all  this,  a  man  may  see,  out  of  the 
Belvedere  windows,  much  green  and  peaceful  landscape  ;  many 
firelit  parlours  ;  good  people  laughing,  drinking,  and  making  love 
as  they  did  before  the  Flood  or  the  French  Revolution ;  and  the 
old  shepherd  telling  his  tale  under  the  hawthorn. 

Extreme  busyness,  whether  at  school  or  college,  kirk  or  market, 
is  a  symptom  of  deficient  vitality  ;  and  a  faculty  for  idleness  implies 
a  catholic  appetite  and  a  strong  sense  of  personal  identity.  There 
is  a  sort  of  dead-alive,  hackneyed  people  about,  who  are  scarcely 
conscious  of  living  except  in  the  exercise  of  some  conventional 
occupation.  Bring  these  fellows  into  the  country,  or  set  them 
aboard  ship,  and  you  will  see  how  they  pine  for  their  desk  or  their 
study.  They  have  no  curiosity ;  they  cannot  give  themselves  over 
to  random  provocations  ;  they  do  not  take  pleasure  in  the  exercise 
of  their  faculties  for  its  own  sake  ;  and  unless  Necessity  lays  about 
them  with  a  stick,  they  will  even  stand  still.  It  is  no  good  speak- 
ing to  such  folk  :  they  cannot  be  idle,  their  nature  is  not  generous 
enough ;  and  they  pass  those  hours  in  a  sort  of  coma,  which  are 


460  AN  APOLOGY  FOR  IDLERS 

not  dedicated  to  furious  moiling  in  the  gold-mill.  When  they  do 
not  require  to  go  to  the  office,  when  they  are  not  hungry  and  have 
no  mind  to  drink,  the  whole  breathing  world  is  a  blank  to  them. 
If  they  have  to  wait  an  hour  or  so  for  a  train,  they  fall  into  a 
stupid  trance  with  their  eyes  open.  To  see  them,  you  would  sup- 
pose there  was  nothing  to  look  at  and  no  one  to  speak  with ;  you 
would  imagine  they  were  paralyzed  or  alienated  ;  and  yet  very 
possibly  they  are  hard  workers  in  their  own  way,  and  have  good 
eyesight  for  a  flaw  in  a  deed  or  a  turn  of  the  market.  They  have 
been  to  school  and  college,  but  all  the  time  they  had  their  eye  on 
the  medal ;  they  have  gone  about  in  the  world  and  mixed  with 
clever  people,  but  all  the  time  they  were  thinking  of  their  own 
affairs.  As  if  a  man's  soul  were  not  too  small  to  begin  with,  they 
have  dwarfed  and  narrowed  theirs  by  a  life  of  all  work  and  no 
play ;  until  here  they  are  at  forty,  with  a  listless  attention,  a  mind 
vacant  of  all  material  of  amusement,  and  not  one  thought  to  rub 
against  another,  while  they  wait  for  the  train.  Before  he  was 
breeched,  he  might  have  clambered  on  the  boxes ;  when  he  was 
twenty,  he  would  have  stared  at  the  girls ;  but  now  the  pipe  is 
smoked  out,  the  snuff-box  empty,  and  my  gentleman  sits  bolt  up- 
right upon  a  bench,  with  lamentable  eyes.  This  does  not  appeal 
to  me  as  being  Success  in  Life. 

But  it  is  not  only  the  person  himself  who  suffers  from  his  busy 
habits,  but  his  wife  and  children,  his  friends  and  relations,  and 
down  to  the  very  people  he  sits  with  in  a  railway  carriage  or  an 
omnibus.  Perpetual  devotion  to  what  a  man  calls  his  business,  is 
only  to  be  sustained  by  perpetual  neglect  of  many  other  things. 
And  it  is  not  by  any  means  certain  that  a  man's  business  is  the 
most  important  thing  he  has  to  do.  To  an  impartial  estimate  it 
will  seem  clear  that  many  of  the  wisest,  most  virtuous,  and  most 
beneficent  parts  that  are  to  be  played  upon  the  Theatre  of  Life 
are  filled  by  gratuitous  performers,  and  pass,  among  the  world  at 
large,  as  phases  of  idleness.  For  in  that  Theatre,  not  only  the 
walking  gentlemen,  singing  chambermaids,  and  diligent  fiddlers  in 
the  orchestra,  but  those  who  look  on  and  clap  their  hands  from 
the  benches,  do  really  play  a  part  and  fulfil  important  offices  tow- 
ards the  general  result.  You  are  no  doubt  very  dependent  on 
the  care  of  your  lawyer  and  stockbroker,  of  the  guards  and  signal- 


ROBERT  LOUIS   STEVENSON  46 1 

men  who  convey  you  rapidly  from  place  to  place,  and  the  police- 
men who  walk  the  streets  for  your  protection;  but  is  there  not  a 
thought  of  gratitude  in  your  heart  for  certain  other  benefactors 
who  set  you  smiling  when  they  fall  in  your  way,  or  season  your 
dinner  with  good  company?  Colonel  Newcome  helped  to  lose 
his  friend's  money ;  Fred  Bayham  had  an  ugly  trick  of  borrowing 
shirts ;  and  yet  they  were  better  people  to  fall  among  than  Mr. 
Barnes.  And  though  Falstaff  was  neither  sober  nor  very  honest,  I 
think  I  could  name  one  or  two  long-faced  Barabbases  whom  the 
world  could  better  have  done  without.  Hazlitt  mentions  that  he 
was  more  sensible  of  obligation  to  Northcote,  who  had  never  done 
him  anything  he  could  call  a  service,  than  to  his  whole  circle  of 
ostentatious  friends ;  for  he  thought  a  good  companion  emphati- 
cally the  greatest  benefactor.  I  know  there  are  people  in  the 
world  who  cannot  feel  grateful  unless  the  favour  has  been  done 
them  at  the  cost  of  pain  and  difficulty.  But  this  is  a  churUsh  dis- 
position. A  man  may  send  you  six  sheets  of  letter-paper  covered 
with  the  most  entertaining  gossip,  or  you  may  pass  half  an  hour 
pleasantly,  perhaps  profitably,  over  an  article  of  his ;  do  you 
think  the  service  would  be  greater,  if  he  had  made  the  manuscript 
in  his  heart's  blood,  like  a  compact  with  the  devil ;  do  you 
really  fancy  you  should  be  more  beholden  to  your  correspondent, 
if  he  had  been  damning  you  all  the  while  for  your  importunity? 
Pleasures  are  more  beneficial  than  duties  because,  like  the  quality 
of  mercy,  they  are  not  strained,  and  they  are  twice  blest.  There 
must  always  be  two  to  a  kiss,  and  there  may  be  a  score  in  a  jest ; 
but  wherever  there  is  an  element  of  sacrifice,  the  favour  is  con- 
ferred with  pain,  and,  among  generous  people,  received  with  con- 
fusion. There  is  no  duty  we  so  much  underrate  as  the  duty  of 
being  happy.  By  being  happy,  we  sow  anonymous  benefits  upon 
the  world,  which  remain  unknown  even  to  ourselves,  or  when  they 
are  disclosed,  surprise  nobody  so  much  as  the  benefactor.  The 
other  day,  a  ragged,  barefoot  boy  ran  down  the  street  after  a 
marble,  with  so  jolly  an  air  that  he  set  every  one  he  passed  into  a 
good  humour ;  one  of  these  persons,  who  had  been  delivered  from 
more  than  usually  black  thoughts,  stopped  the  little  fellow  and 
gave  him  some  money  with  this  remark  :  "  You  see  what  some- 
times comes  of  looking  pleased."    If  he  had  looked  pleased  before, 


462  AN  APOLOGY  FOR  IDLERS 

he  had  now  to  look  both  pleased  and  mystified.  For  my  part,  I 
justify  this  encouragement  of  smiling  rather  than  tearful  children  ; 
I  do  not  wish  to  pay  for  tears  anywhere  but  upon  the  stage  ;  but 
I  am  prepared  to  deal  largely  in  the  opposite  commodity.  A 
happy  man  or  woman  is  a  better  thing  to  find  than  a  five-pound 
note.  He  or  she  is  a  radiating  focus  of  good-will ;  and  their  en- 
trance into  a  room  is  as  though  another  candle  had  been  lighted. 
We  need  not  care  whether  they  could  prove  the  forty-seventh 
proposition;  they  do  a  better  thing  than  that,  they  practically 
demonstrate  the  great  Theorem  of  the  Liveableness  of  Life.  Con- 
sequently, if  a  person  cannot  be  happy  without  remaining  idle, 
idle  he  should  remain.  It  is  a  revolutionary  precept ;  but,  thanks 
to  hunger  and  the  workhouse,  one  not  easily  to  be  abused ;  and 
within  practical  hmits,  it  is  one  of  the  most  incontestable  truths 
in  the  whole  Body  of  Morality.  Look  at  one  of  your  industrious 
fellows  for  a  moment,  I  beseech  you.  He  sows  hurry  and  reaps 
indigestion ;  he  puts  a  vast  deal  of  activity  out  to  interest,  and  re- 
ceives a  large  measure  of  nervous  derangement  in  return.  Either 
he  absents  himself  entirely  from  all  fellowship,  and  lives  a  recluse 
in  a  garret,  with  carpet  slippers  and  a  leaden  inkpot ;  or  he 
comes  among  people  swiftly  and  bitterly,  in  a  contraction  of  his 
whole  nervous  system,  to  discharge  some  temper  before  he  returns 
•to  work.  I  do  not  care  how  much  or  how  well  he  works,  this 
fellow  is  an  evil  feature  in  other  people's  lives.  They  would  be 
happier  if  he  were  dead.  They  could  easier  do  without  his  ser- 
vices in  the  Circumlocution  Office,  than  they  can  tolerate  his  frac- 
tious spirits.  He  poisons  life  at  the  well-head.  It  is  better  to  be 
beggared  out  of  hand  by  a  scapegrace  nephew,  than  daily  hag- 
ridden by  a  peevish  uncle. 

And  what,  in  God's  name,  is  all  this  pother  about?  For  what 
cause  do  they  embitter  their  own  and  other  people's  lives  ?  That 
a  man  should  publish  three  or  thirty  articles  a  year,  that  he  should 
finish  or  not  finish  his  great  allegorical  picture,  are  questions  of 
little  interest  to  the  world.  The  ranks  of  life  are  full ;  and  al- 
though a  thousand  fall,  there  are  always  some  to  go  into  the  breach. 
When  they  told  Joan  of  Arc  she  should  be  at  home  minding 
women's  work,  she  answered  there  were  plenty  to  spin  and  wash. 
And  so,  even  with  your  own  rare  gifts  !     When  nature  is  "  so  care- 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  463 

less  of  the  single  life,"  why  should  we  coddle  ourselves  into  the 
fancy  that  our  own  is  of  exceptional  importance  ?  Suppose  Shake- 
speare had  been  knocked  on  the  head  some  dark  night  in  Sir 
Thomas  Lucy's  preserves,  the  world  would  have  wagged  on  better 
or  worse,  the  pitcher  gone  to  the  well,  the  scythe  to  the  corn,  and 
the  student  to  his  book ;  and  no  one  been  any  the  wiser  of  the 
loss.  There  are  not  many  works  extant,  if  you  look  the  alterna- 
tive all  over,  which  are  worth  the  price  of  a  pound  of  tobacco  to  a 
man  of  hmited  means.  This  is  a  sobering  reflection  for  the 
proudest  of  our  earthly  vanities.  Even  a  tobacconist  may,  upon 
consideration,  find  no  great  cause  for  personal  vainglory  in  the 
phrase ;  for  although  tobacco  is  an  admirable  sedative,  the  quali- 
ties necessary  for  retailing  it  are  neither  rare  nor  precious  in  them- 
selves. Alas  and  alas  !  you  may  take  it  how  you  will,  but  the 
services  of  no  single  individual  are  indispensable.  Atlas  was  just 
a  gentleman  with  a  protracted  nightmare  !  And  yet  you  see  mer- 
chants who  go  and  labour  themselves  into  a  great  fortune  and 
thence  into  the  bankruptcy  court ;  scribblers  who  keep  scribbHng 
at  little  articles  until  their  temper  is  a  cross  to  all  who  come  about 
them,  as  though  Pharaoh  should  set  the  Israelites  to  make  a  pin 
instead  of  a  pyramid  ;  and  fine  young  men  who  work  themselves 
into  a  decline,  and  are  driven  off  in  a  hearse  with  white  plumes 
upon  it.  Would  you  not  suppose  these  persons  had  been  whis- 
pered, by  the  Master  of  the  Ceremonies,  the  promise  of  some 
momentous  destiny?  and  that  this  lukewarm  bullet  on  which  they 
play  their  farces  was  the  bull's-eye  and  centre-point  of  all  the  uni- 
verse ?  And  yet  it  is  not  so.  The  ends  for  which  they  give  away 
their  priceless  youth,  for  all  they  know,  may  be  chimerical  or  hurt- 
ful ;  the  glory  and  riches  they  expect  may  never  come,  or  may  find 
them  indifferent ;  and  they  and  the  world  they  inhabit  are  so  in- 
considerable that  the  mind  freezes  at  the  thought. 


NOTES   AND    QUESTIONS 

The  following  questions  and  exercises,  placed  here  to  aid  teachers  and 
students,  are  not  exhaustive,  but  merely  suggestive  of  interesting  and  charac- 
teristic points  for  discussion.  Taken  together,  they  illustrate  a  fairly  complete 
theory  of  the  main  principles  of  description,  narration,  exposition,  and,  in  a 
lesser  degree,  of  argumentation,  persuasion,  and  style. 

Gibbon:  Byzantitim. — This  passage  from  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the 
Roman  Empire  is  a  classical  illustration  of  systematic  description  of  a  large 
tract  of  country.  In  substance,  it  brings  out  the  prominent  landmarks  of  the 
famous  region  with  which  it  deals,  and  appeals  to  historical  associations.  In 
method,  it  works  with  an  orderly  ground  plan,  dwelling  first,  and  with  consid- 
erable detail,  on  the  surroundings  of  Byzantium,  and  then  passing  to  the  more 
remote  regions;   and  it  makes  use  of  the  so-called  "  fundamental  image." 

I.  Why  should  Byzantium  deserve  so  formal  and  elaborate  a  description  as 
that  which  Gibbon  has  given?  What  is  its  place  in  the  history?  2.  Of  what 
descriptive  and  suggestive  value  are  the  mythical,  legendary,  and  historical 
references?  3.  What  order  does  Gibbon  follow  in  his  description?  What  is 
his  plan?  Draw  up  a  sketch  of  the  place  and  compare  it  with  a  map.  Does 
his  object  seem  to  be  to  give  a  general  impression  of  the  region  and  its  associa- 
tions, or  to  furnish  accurate  and  detailed  topographical  information?  4.  Are 
you  acquainted  with  other  descriptions  of  the  same  general  sort  ?  Write  a 
short  description  of  this  kind,  dealing  with  some  familiar  region  or  locality  of 
special  importance. 

Whitney:  The  Yosemite  Valley.  —  Professor  Whitney's  account  of  the 
Yosemite  Valley  is  an  unusually  good  example  of  orderly  description,  written 
with  considerable  detail,  of  the  main  features  of  a  famous  landscape.  The 
description  brings  out  the  arrangement  and  dimensions  of  the  valley,  the  nature 
of  its  most  impressive  phenomena,  and  certain  of  the  general  characteristics 
which  make  it  remarkable.  In  method,  the  passage  is  merely  orderly  progres- 
sion from  one  point  to  another  until  the  chief  features  have  been  enumerated. 
In  style,  it  is  matter-of-fact,  and  makes  very  little  attempt  to  appeal  to  the 
emotions.  The  selection  as  originally  published  was  accompanied  by  a  map; 
this  it  does  not  seem  necessary  to  reproduce  here,  because  similar  maps  are 
easily  accessible  in  such  books  as  Baedeker's  United  States,  and  because  the 
description  is  so  admirably  planned  that  such  reference  is  scarcely  necessary. 
If  the  reader  will  draw  a  rough  parallelogram,  extending  a  little  north  of  east 
and  south  of  west,  with  the  Merced  River  running  somewhat  south  of  west 
2  H  465 


466  NOTES  AND    QUESTIONS 

through  the  middle  of  the  figure,  and  imagine  himself  entering  the  valley  from 
the  lower  right-hand  corner,  he  will  find  that  he  can  place  for  himself  the  chief 
points  indicated. 

I.  What  does  the  first  paragraph  indicate  with  regard  to  the  point  of  view 
of  the  selection?  What  does  the  last  tell  of  its  nature?  2.  Compare  the  de- 
scription with  that  of  Byzantium.  What  differences  are  to  be  noted  in  the 
extent  of  country;  in  the  method  of  progression  used?  Which  is  the  more  like 
a  map?  Could  the  methods  be  exchanged  with  success?  What  elements  does 
Gibbon  add  which  are  not  geographical?  What  does  one  find  in  the  descrip- 
tion of  Yosemite  which  is  not  geographical  or  topographical?  Does  Whitney 
use  a  "fundamental  image"?  3.  In  what  other  ways  might  this  description 
have  been  treated,  as  a  panorama  from  one  point,  as  on  a  particular  occasion, 
or  from  the  point  of  view  of  a  particular  person  ?  Write  parts  of  short  descrip- 
tions of  the  Yosemite  or  other  places,  embodying  these  differences. 

Poe :  Landor^s  Cottage.  —  Landor's  Cottage  describes  an  imaginary  scene 
with  much  explicitness.  It  narrates  the  manner  in  which  the  author  came  to 
the  coign  of  vantage  whence  he  beheld  the  view  described  in  the  present 
selection;  thence  he  goes  on  to  relate  how  he  approached  and  entered  the 
house,  and  to  describe  the  interior  and  the  occupants.  The  passage  is  an 
admirable  example  of  exact  description,  and  is  a  fine  instance  of  the  carefully 
controlled  imagination  of  Poe's  best  writing. 

I.  From  what  point  of  view  is  the  description  made  ?  By  what  method 
does  Poe  go  from  one  object  to  another  ?  What  is  the  total  effect  of  the 
picture  he  presents  ?  2.  Make  a  plan  of  the  house  and  the  grounds  from 
the  description  Poe  has  given.  3.  Describe  the  interior  of  the  house  and 
the  occupants  as  you  imagine  them  to  be,  that  is,  in  keeping  with  the  present 
extract.  Compare  the  result  with  the  original.  4.  Write  a  composition 
describing  with  as  much  exactness  as  possiljle  some  scene  with  which  you  are 
familiar.  Make  a  map  from  your  description,  in  order  that  you  may  see  if 
you  have  treated  any  details  inexactly  or  inadequately.  Write  a  sketch  of  an 
imaginary  landscape  to  bring  out  a  special  quality.  5.  Why  do  you  suppose 
that  Poe  chose  the  name  Laudor  ?  6.  Point  out  in  Poe's  work  other 
instances  of  this  accurate,  explicit  writing,  as  in  the  Domain  of  Arnheim,  or, 
more  incidentally,  in  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher. 

Ruskin  :  St.  Mark's.  —  Ruskin's  famous  description  is  a  good  example  of 
work  of  the  more  elaborately  impressionistic  sort ;  he  wishes  to  show  the 
reader  how  the  building  strikes  the  eye  of  the  beholder  as  he  first  sees  it 
bursting  upon  his  vision.  In  method,  Ruskin  works  here  by  contrasts  — 
between  the  English  cathedral  and  St.  .Mark's,  and  between  the  surroundings 
of  each  cathedral  and  the  building  itself.  In  style,  there  is  an  accumulation 
of  specific,  occasionally  quasi-technical,  details,  but  all  these  are  chosen  for 
their  picturesque  effect. 

I.  What  do  the  first  and  the  last  paragraphs  tell  with  regard  to  the  author 
of  the  description  ?  How  is  the  point  of  view  kept  throughout  ?  2.  What 
is  the  impression  made  by  each  paragraph  ?     On  what  kind  of  descriptive 


NOTES  AND    QUESTIONS  46/ 

detail  is  each  of  these  impressions  founded  ?  Do  you  gain  an  exact  idea 
of  size,  dimensions,  etc.  ?  Compare  the  piece  in  these  respects  with  Poe's 
Lander's  Cottage.  Contrast  the  purposes  of  this  description  with  those  of 
Gibbon,  Whitney,  and  Poe  in  the  preceding  selections. 

Hudson :  The  Plains  of  Patagonia.  —  This  passage  differs  from  those  which 
have  preceded  it  in  the  present  volume  in  that  it  describes  the  plains  quite  as 
much  by  the  effect  they  produce  on  the  author  as  by  the  enumeration  of 
details,  by  a  careful  plan,  as  was  the  case  in  the  first  three  selections,  or  by 
contrasts  and  effects  of  an  objective  sort,  as  in  Ruskin's  description  of  St. 
Mark's  cathedral.  General  characteristics  are,  to  be  sure,  to  be  noted,  as  the 
constant  tone  of  grayness  in  the  landscape  ;  but  the  effect  of  the  scene  on  the 
writer  and  the  causes  of  it  are  what  he  is  chiefly  concerned  with. 

I.  What  objects,  colors,  forms,  and  sounds  does  the  author  enumerate  as 
characteristic  of  the  plains  of  Patagonia  ?  How  do  these  compare  in  copi- 
ousness with  the  details  of  the  preceding  selections  ?  On  what  does  he  lay 
special  stress  ?  2.  What  is  the  prevailing  impression  given  by  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  plains,  apart  from  the  effect  on  the  author  ?  3.  What  is  the 
effect  of  these  objects  on  the  observer  ?  How  does  he  present  this  effect  ? 
Does  he  convey  a  powerful  impression  ?  4.  Write  a  description  aiming  to 
give  an  impression  of  a  peculiar  and  personal  kind. 

Borrow :  The  IVorld's  End.  —  Sorrow's  description,  though  dwelling  on 
what  may  be  called  the  general  impression  of  Cape  Finisterre,  is  concerned 
chiefly  with  the  particular  aspect  which  a  sublime  spectacle  presented  to  his 
eye.  As  the  narrative  progresses,  there  appears  more  and  more  conspicuously 
the  World's  End,  and  finally  it  becomes  the  centre  of  the  reader's  interest. 

I.  What  is  the  final  and  total  impression  made  by  Sorrow's  description? 
To  what  facts  and  by  what  methods  does  he  appeal  to  the  reader?  What 
part,  if  any,  do  the  people  whom  he  meets  play  in  the  description?  Compare 
the  situation,  in  these  respects,  with  the  preceding  descriptions.  2.  What 
differences  in  treatment  would  have  resulted  had  Borrow  employed  the 
methods  used  by  Gibbon?  by  Whitney?  by  Poe?  by  Ruskin  ?  by  Hudson? 
In  which  of  all  the  descriptions  given  so  far  in  this  volume  does  the  author's 
personality  play  the  greatest  part?    In  which  is  narrative  the  most  prominent? 

Kipling:  Wee  IVillie  IVinkie. — This  is  one  of  Mr.  Kipling's  stories  of 
the  class  which  deal  with  British  life  in  India.  It  attempts  to  bring  out  one 
character  in  one  main  situation. 

I.  What  is  the  purpose  of  the  tale?  What  traits  in  the  character  of  the 
young  hero  does  Mr.  Kipling  bring  out?  Does  he  do  this  by  indication  or 
by  suggestion?  How  much  has  the  hero's  childish  speech  to  do  with  the  im- 
pression? Are  the  other  characters  individualized?  2.  Can  the  narrative  be 
called  "  realistic  "? 

Poe:  The  Cask  of  Amontillado. — This  story  is  characteristic  of  Poe  in 
that  he  sets  before  himself  certain  premises  or  problems  —  here  the  desire 
for  revenge  —  and  works  from  these  to  a  complete  denouement.  The  story 
is  without  moral  purpose;   it  is  a  purely  intellectual  handling  of  the  motives 


468  NOTES  AND    QUESTIONS 

of  which  Poe  assumes  the  existence.  The  amount  of  dialogue,  considering 
the  length  of  the  story,  is  remarkable. 

I,  What  is  the  central  problem  which  the  author  places  before  himself? 
In  what  paragraphs  is  this  set  forth?  Why  are  those  motives  necessary  to 
the  ending?  From  that  ending  work  backwards  to  see  just  how  Poe  has 
arrived  there.  How  has  he  made  the  extraordinary  scene  of  the  immolation 
plausible?  Where  does  the  action  proper  begin?  What  new  elements  of 
time,  place,  and  circumstance  are  added  as  the  situation  develops?  Explain 
how  Fortunato  is  tempted  to  his  doom.  Of  what  value  is  the  episode  of 
the  trowel?  How  does  the  dialogue  help  the  story?  2.  In  what  way  are  the 
paragraphs  after  the  words,  "  I  began  to  wall  up  the  niche,"  necessary  to  the 
completion  of  the  story?  3.  Can  the  story  be  called  "realistic"?  Of  what 
importance  are  the  local  allusions?  4.  Compare  this  story  in  structure  with 
other  tales  of  Poe  of  the  same  type,  as  The  Black  Cat  and  The  Pit  and  the 
Pendidum,  with  a  view  to  showing  Poe's  handling  of  incident  and  situation, 
his  climax,  and  the  elements  which  go  to  make  up  the  type.  How  does  this 
type  differ  from  that  of  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher,  The  Masque  of  the  Red 
Death,  and  Ligeia  ?  How  from  that  of  The  Gold-Bug  and  The  Purloined 
Letter?     What  is  common  to  both  the  types  ? 

Hawthorne :  Ethan  Brand.  — The  story  is  typical  of  many  of  Hawthorne's 
tales,  as  The  Ambitious  Guest,  The  Great  Carbuncle,  The  Great  Stone  Face, 
and  Dr.  Heidegger'' s  Experiment,  and  presents  in  a  shorter  form  the  same  kind 
of  problem  that  one  finds  in  his  longer  works.  The  scene  is  hardly  so  local 
here  as  in  the  novels;  the  mention  of  Greylock  and  the  lime-kilns,  however, 
place  it  in  north-western  Massachusetts,  and  several  of  the  characters  are 
common  types  in  New  England.  The  tale,  unlike  Poe's  The  Cask  ofAmoji- 
iillado,  is  very  moral  and  is  strongly  allegorical  in  cast. 

I.  What  is  the  purpose  of  the  story?  Does  the  tale  have  to  do  with  events 
and  characters  of  merely  external  interest,  or  does  it  use  these  events  and 
characters  as  representative  of  the  inner  life  ?  2.  What  does  Ethan  Brand 
represent  ?  What  part  do  Bartram,  Joe,  the  stage-agent,  Giles,  the  Doctor, 
and  the  younger  members  of  the  crowd  play  in  the  story  ?  What  is  the  func- 
tion of  the  German  Jew  with  respect  to  the  allegory  ?  What  signifies  the 
episode  of  the  dog  ?  Account  for  the  description  on  the  morning  after  the  catas- 
trophe. Make  a  summary  of  this  story,  so  as  to  bring  out  the  main  elements 
in  a  more  literal  language  and  manner  than  Hawthorne  has  done.  3.  From 
what  point  of  view  is  the  story  told  ?  Compare  it  with  the  two  preceding 
selections.  Compare  the  story  with  other  allegories  with  which  you  are  famil- 
iar, in  Hawthorne  and  elsewhere.  Make  some  general  classification  of  Haw- 
thorne's stories. 

Stevenson:  Markheitn.  —  Markhei?ft  belongs  to  that  class  of  Stevenson's 
work  of  which  Dr.  fekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde  is  the  best  known  example,  but  of 
which  itself  and  Will  0'  the  AIill3.re  perhaps  quite  as  good  specimens.  These 
three  tales,  Uke  Hawthorne's,  are  successful  attempts  to  personify  in  the  pictu- 
resque forms  of  life  a  struggle  which  goes  on  in  the  soul  of  man  and  which  is 


NOTES  AND    QUESTIONS  469 

more  commonly  treated  by  analytic  and  expository  methods,  as  in  George  Eliot's 
novels.  Traces  of  the  same  sort  of  characterization  may  be  found  in  some  of 
Stevenson's  later  and  longer  stories,  like  The  Master  of  Ballatitrae,  in  which 
the  chief  figure,  besides  being  an  individual,  is  depicted  as  a  type  of  unrelieved 
evil,  an  incarnate  spirit  of  malice  which  blights  everything  it  lays  hand  on. 
Such  stories  are  embodiments  of  a  moral,  as  Coleridge's  Ancient  Mariner  is 
the  embodiment  of  a  fanciful,  world. 

I.  Wherein  lies  the  central  interest  of  the  story  ?  Is  it  in  the  details  of  the 
murder,  the  ensuing  search  for  the  money,  the  self-surrender  of  the  murderer; 
or  does  it  lie  in  the  moral  and  intellectual  processes  through  which  the  chief 
character  passes  ?  Note  the  ending.  2.  What,  in  the  theme  of  the  story,  is 
the  function  of  the  various  incidents,  the  presence  of  so  many  clocks,  the  in- 
terruptions, the  examination  l^y  Markheim  of  the  body  of  his  victim,  the 
changed  mood  of  Markheim,  as  he  is  searching  for  the  money,  and  the  op- 
position of  the  "better  self"  ?  Do  these  work  to  a  climax?  If  so,  how? 
3.  In  point  of  style,  what  should  you  say  were  some  of  the  chief  features  ? 
What  impression  does  each  narrative  paragraph  convey  ?  From  what  point 
of  view  is  it  written  ?  4.  Compare  the  story  in  purpose  and  method  with 
Etha7i  Brand  SLiid  The  Cask  of  Amontillado.  In  what  other  works  of  Steven- 
son, beside  those  mentioned  above,  do  you  find  the  idealistic  elements  ? 

Garland  :  Among  the  Corn-rows. — The  descriptive  part  of  the  story  from 
which  this  selection  is  taken  are,  though  subordinate,  of  much  importance  in 
that  they  supply  much  of  the  motive  for  the  denouement,  and  are  of  themselves 
notable  examples  of  "  local  color "  ;  they  attempt,  that  is,  to  show,  in  full 
reality,  the  characteristic  sights  and  sounds  of  the  situation.  All  go  to  make 
the  story  a  vivid  picture. 

I.  What  is  the  total  effect  produced  by  the  descriptive  parts  of  the  passage? 
Describe  in  a  few  words  the  sort  of  place  where  the  events  happen.  2.  To 
what  senses  does  the  description  make  appeal  ?  How  far  do  the  sights  and 
sounds  seem  characteristic  ?  3.  Examine  in  some  detail  the  verbs,  adjectives, 
and  nouns  to  note  their  specificness.  4.  Take  the  same  setting  and  suggest 
other  incidents  which  will  fit  it.     5.  W^rite  a  story  employing  "  local  color." 

Allen:  The  Lad  in  the  Hemp-field.  —  This  selection,  like  the  preceding, 
illustrates  "  local  color."  It  differs  from  the  former  in  that  it  lays  rather  more 
stress  on  the  mental  state  of  the  chief  character.  It  is  analytical  as  well  as 
picturesque. 

I.  What  is  the  purpose  of  the  narrative  ?  What  is  the  centre  of  interest  ? 
How  far  may  the  aspiration  of  the  hero  be  regarded  as  more  fitting  to  one 
type  of  American,  in  one  locality,  than  another  ?  2.  What  descriptive  facts 
do  you  note  ?  How  much  of  the  selection  is  analysis?  To  what  degree  may 
the  detail  be  said  to  add  "local  color"  to  the  scene  and  the  analysis?  3.  Is 
the  sketch  in  any  respect  conventional?  In  what  respects  original?  In  what 
of  universal  interest? 

Hewlett:  The  Miracle  of  the  Peach  Tree.  —  Mr.  Hewlett,  in  the  story 
from  which  this  selection  is  made,  attempts  to  convey  the  picture  of  a  simple 


470  NOTES  AND    QUESTIONS 

far-off,  credulous  community.  The  present  passage  relates  a  very  simple  hap- 
pening, and  aims  to  present  the  atmosphere  of  appropriate  surroundings  for 
the  event. 

I.  Tell  the  story  briefly  and  literally.  What  does  Mr.  Hewlett  add  to 
this  narrative?  On  what  kind  of  facts  does  he  dwell?  What  is  the  impres- 
sion of  the  scene  as  a  whole  ?  Of  the  actors  in  the  tale  ?  2.  Examine  the 
style  of  the  passage  to  note  the  quality  of  the  writing,  and  the  kind  of  sen- 
tences, etc.,  which  Mr.  Hewlett  employs. 

London :  A  Dog  and  His  Master.  —  This  passage,  while  containing  touches 
of  local  life,  is  remarkable  chiefly  as  a  vivid  piece  of  narrative,  in  which  a 
dog's  character  is  sympathetically  handled.  A  few  episodes  bring  out  a  few 
traits,  which  are  in  turn  subordinated  to  one  main  trait  —  the  devotion  of  the 
animal  to  his  master. 

I.  What  is  the  chief  purpose  of  the  story?  Has  it  any  minor  aims?  2.  In 
what  ways  is  the  dog's  character  brought  out  in  direct  narration?  In  what 
ways  by  suggestion  of  effect?  3.  How  far  is  description  used?  To  what 
extent  is  this  deliberately  "  local  "  in  purpose? 

Scott:  The  Combat  in  the  Desert.  — T\i\%  piece  of  narrative  is  character- 
istic of  Scott  in  that  it  introduces  the  action  by  a  formal,  elaborate,  syste- 
matic piece  of  description,  narrates  the  events  with  equal  deliberation  and 
gorgeousness,  and  brings  the  incident  to  a  close,  though  preparing  the  way 
for  another  interesting  scene.  The  scenic  character  of  the  extract  is  perhaps 
more  typical  of  Scott's  stories  of  the  crusaders  than  of  his  novels  dealing 
with  Scottish  life,  but  it  is  very  common  in  his  writing.  The  most  familiar 
examples  occur  in  Ivanhoe,  which  is  scarcely  more  than  a  succession  of  scenes, 
of  which  the  tournament  at  Ashby  and  the  storming  of  Torquilstone  are  per- 
haps the  most  famous. 

I.  To  what  facts  does  Scott  make  appeal  in  order  to  render  the  scene  impres- 
sive? How  are  these  arranged  to  bring  out  the  central  interest?  2.  What 
should  you  say  of  Scott's  style  with  regard  to  its  rhythm  and  cadence  as  bear- 
ing on  the  main  effect?  3.  If  you  have  not  read  The  Talisman,  \vx\\.e.  a 
scene  in  continuation  of  the  present  and  compare  it  with  chapter  ii.  in  Scott's 
novel. 

Dickens  :  David  ajid  the  Ark.  — The  passage  is  a  good  illustration  of  the 
sympathetic  pictures  of  life  which  abound  in  Dickens's  work;  it  is  not  gro- 
tesquely comic  like  much  in  Pickwick  Papers,  or  polemic  against  social  abuses 
as  are  many  passages  in  Oliver  Twist  and  Nicholas  Nickleby,  or  replete  with 
rhetorical  pathos  as  are  the  chapters  describing  the  death  of  Paul  Dombey  or 
Little  Nell.  It  pictures  the  class  of  persons  which  Dickens  drew  best,  simple, 
homely,  kindly  people,  and  it  pictures  them  in  a  measure  typical  of  the  author, 
that  is,  by  a  few  descriptive  touches  and  by  characteristic  words  and  acts. 
The  characters,  like  most  of  those  of  Dickens,  are  individual  creations,  and 
are  not  usually  to  be  regarded  as  types,  except  so  far  as  subsequent  custom 
may  have  made  them  so. 

I.    Are  the  characters  in  the  selection  simple  or  complex  ?     What  are  the 


NOTES  AND   QUESTrONH  47 1 

chief  traits  of  each  ?  By  what  method  does  Dickens  fix  each  person  in  the 
mind  of  the  reader  ?  In  other  words,  what  acts  or  words  do  we  associate 
with  each  ?  2.  In  the  purely  descriptive  passages,  what  method  does 
Dickens  pursue  ?  How  does  his  description  compare  in  formahty  and  system 
with  that  of  Scott  ?  '  3.  Wherein  does  the  humor  of  the  passage  He  ? 
Wherein  its  pathos,  if  any  ?  What  is  the  prevaiHng  feehng  ?  In  what  way 
is  this  representative  of  Dickens  ?  Cite  other  passages.  4.  Write  a  narra- 
tive employing  Dickens's  method  of  bringing  out  character. 

Thackeray:  Pefidennis  Falls  in  Love.  — This  passage,  aside  from  its  man- 
ner, differs  from  the  preceding  in  one  striking  way :  Pendennis,  though  very 
individual,  is  represented  also  as  a  type  of  the  sentimental,  callow  youth, 
just  as  Foker  stands  for  a  type  of  the  callow,  good-humored  young  man  of  the 
world.  This  classical  quality  which  gives  to  the  experiences  of  individuals  a 
value  which  may  be  called  universal,  or  at  least  national,  is  one  of  the  dis- 
tinguishing marks  of  Thackeray's  genius,  and  lies  at  the  basis  of  his  interest  in 
human  personality. 

I.  Tell  the  story  in  brief,  simply  with  a  view  to  stating  the  main  facts. 
W^hat,  in  addition  to  these  facts,  does  Thackeray  give  which  makes  the  char- 
acters seem  like  human  beings  ?  In  what  respects  may  their  actions  and 
words  be  taken  as  representing  types  rather  than  individuals  ?  2.  Describe 
the'character  of  Pendennis;  of  Foker;  of  Miss  Fotheringay.  What  is  your 
impression  of  their  amiability  ?  Of  their  naturalness  and  humanity  ? 
3.  What  is  the  quality  of  Thackeray's  humor  as  revealed  in  this  passage  ? 
Does  it  bear  out  the  common  assertion  that  Thackeray  is  "  cynical "  ?  4.  How 
far  does  Thackeray  analyze  motives  and  states  of  mind  ?  How  far  is  his  view 
that  of  an  observer  of  the  outer,  so  to  speak,  or  of  the  inner  man  ?  Are  we 
told  directly  of  motives,  or  do  we  infer  them  from  the  effects  ?  5.  How  far 
are  these  methods  characteristic  of  Thackeray  ?  6.  Write  a  character  sketch 
of  some  person  with  whom  you  are  acquainted,  trying  to  picture  him  as  an 
individual  and  as  a  type. 

George  Eliot :  A  Voice  from  the  Past.  —  This  characteristic  passage  differs 
chiefly  from  those  which  have  preceded  it  in  that  it  deals  with  a  mental  struggle 
rather  than  a  material  picture  or  a  physical  effect.  The  heroine  is  represented 
as  passing  through  a  spiritual  crisis  which  is  analyzed  in  its  diverse  stages  and 
which  leaves  her  changed.  Like  most  of  the  author's  work,  it  is  psychological 
rather  than  picturesque. 

I.  What  stages  does  Maggie  pass  through  in  her  reflections  on  the  trouble 
into  which  her  family  has  fallen  ?  Explain  her  character  at  the  beginning 
and  at  the  end  of  the  passage.  What  changes  have  taken  place  ?  2.  In 
the  main,  to  what  type  of  person  does  Maggie  belong  spiritually  ?  Is  she 
represented  typically  as  well  as  individually  ?  Do  you  get  a  clear  notion  of 
her  personality  as  well  as  of  her  character  ?  3.  If  a  type,  is  the  type,  in 
your  experience,  at  all  common  ?  Do  people  as  you  know  them  experience 
such  crises  ?  Point  out  other  types  in  George  Eliot's  work.  Do  such  states 
of  mind  commonly  appeal  to  ordinary  observers  ?     In  general,  what  is  your 


472  J>IOTES  AND    QUESTIONS 

view  of  the  profundity  and  originality  of  George  Eliot's  comments  on  people  ? 
What  other  methods  does  she  employ  in  characterization  ?  4.  Write  an 
analysis  of  some  character  with  which  you  have  acquaintance. 

Meredith :  Aft  hnpetuous  Lover.  —  The  selection  from  Beauchamp's  Career 
is  one  of  the  many  dramatic  selections  which  one  finds  in  the  works  of  Mere- 
dith, and  is  one  of  the  most  dramatic  to  be  found  in  them,  or,  indeed,  in  any 
English  fiction.  Few  pieces  are  more  striking  than  this  in  manner,  in  critical 
insiglit,  and  in  acuteness  of  analysis  of  character. 

I.  Describe  in  your  own  words  the  traits  in  each  of  the  characters 
introduced.  How  do  these  characters,  including  the  Marquis,  react  on  one 
another  to  produce  the  situation?  What  is  the  crisis?  Is  it  spiritual  or 
material?  2.  What  do  you  infer  with  regard  to  the  happenings  before 
this  scene  and  with  regard  to  the  future  career  of  the  actors?  In  par- 
ticular, what  should  you  say  would  be  the  career  of  the  generous,  chivalrous, 
impetuous  Beauchamp?  3.  Are  these  people  interesting  aside  from  what 
they  may  do  in  promoting  an  interesting  situation?  4.  What  can  you  say 
of  Meredith's  description? 

Macaulay :  The  Civil  War.  —  This  passage  is  from  the  introductory  part 
of  Macaulay's  History,  and  hence  is  less  minute  and  circumstantial  than  the 
narrative  after  the  accession  of  James  II.  Macaulay's  object  is  merely  to  give 
a  general  and  rapid  survey  of  a  period  extending  over  about  seven  years, 
rather  than  to  dwell  on  any  particular  scene,  as  he  does  in  many  of  his  narra- 
tive essays  and  the  later  parts  of  his  history,  and  as  is  done  in  the  historical 
selections  which  follow  this  in  the  present  volume. 

I.  What  is  Macaulay's  purpose  in  this  selection?  On  what  facts  does  he 
dwell?  How  much  of  his  narrative  is  concerned  with  specific  happenings? 
How  much  with  general  motives  and  characteristics?  What  is  the  part  of 
Cromwell  in  the  struggle?  Compare  the  selection  with  Professor  Gardiner's 
account  of  any  of  these  events  in  the  History  of  the  Great  Civil  War. 
2.  What  are  the  qualities  of  Macaulay's  style?  Are  the  divisions- of  his  nar- 
rative plainly  indicated?  What  are  they?  3.  Write  a  narrative  in  the  man- 
ner of  Macaulay,  giving  a  general  survey  of  a  period. 

Parkman :  Braddock's  Defeat. — This  narrative  is  at  once  more  detailed 
and  more  picturesque  than  the  preceding.  Besides  giving  the  chief  causes 
and  the  main  events  which  led  to  the  opening  of  the  campaign,  the  passage 
treats,  in  considerable  minuteness,  the  narrative  of  Braddock's  defeat,  and 
treats  it  picturesquely.  The  present  selection  is  followed  by  accounts  of  the 
other  main  events  of  the  war,  and  they  are  treated  in  the  same  manner.  The 
opening  paragraphs,  then,  may  be  regarded  as  an  introduction  to  these  later 
campaigns  as  well  as  to  that  of  Braddock. 

I.  Where  may  the  statement  of  general  causes  be  said  to  end,  and  where 
does  the  particular  narrative  begin?  2.  Indicate  the  places  where  the  point 
of  view  or  the  subject  of  the  narrative  changes.  Are  these  changes  es- 
sential to  making  the  narrative  complete?  3.  To  what  extent  is  description 
added  to  the  narrative  ?      How  does  the  description  heighten  the  effect  ? 


NOTES  AND    QUESTIONS  473 

How  far  does  Parkman  appeal  to  association  and  contrast  to  render  his  nar- 
rative impressive  ?  4.  What  hkenesses  and  differences  do  you  note  be- 
tween Parkman's  style  and  Macaulay's  ?  Are  such  differences  as  exist  of 
sufficient  moment  to  constitute  a  different  type  from  that  represented  by 
Macaulay,  or  are  their  points  of  difference  merely  those  of  stylistic  detail  and 
of  circumstance  ? 

Carlyle :  The  Storming  of  the  Bastille.  —  Carlyle's  famous  narrative  evi- 
dently differs  from  the  preceding  treatment  of  historical  events  in  that  it 
aims  at  the  presenting  of  an  episode  rather  than  a  general  survey  of  events, 
and  hence  at  greater  picturesque  and  dramatic  effect ;  it  attempts  to  depict 
human  passions  rather  than  to  tell  a  straightforward  story.  Indeed,  its  avoid- 
ance of  direct  narrative  or  matter-of-fact  explanation  is  remarkable. 

I.  Is  this  scene  described  from  the  point  of  view  of  an  observer  of  the 
spectacle  or  from  that  of  the  disinterested  historian  ?  If  the  former,  what 
are  the  movements  of  the  spectator  ?  With  which  side  is  he  sympathetic  ? 
Does  the  point  of  view  shift  frequently  ?  In  what  ways  ?  2.  What  is  the 
general  impression  given  by  the  picture  ?  What  of  each  paragraph  ? 
3.  How  is  the  impression  of  the  flight  of  time  conveyed  to  us  ?  What  in 
general  is  the  sequence  of  events  ?  4.  In  style,  what  are  the  characteristic 
notes  ?  How  do  you  account  for  the  large  number  of  short,  rapid,  exclama- 
tory sentences  ?  How  for  the  number  of  French  idioms  literally  rendered, 
as  "  What  to  do  "  ?  5.  Point  out  characteristic  differences  between  this  and 
the  two  preceding  selections. 

Green  :  Queen  Elizabeth. — This  passage,  which  the  author  is  said  to  have 
regarded  as  his  most  brilliant  piece  of  work,  differs  from  the  writing  which 
precedes  it,  in  that  it  is  almost  wholly  expository  and  contains  little  narrative. 
It  aims  not  so  much  to  give  a  picture  as  to  present  a  character,  important  to 
the  events  which  are  to  follow.  This  difference  may  best  be  explained  by 
noting  that  whenever  both  Carlyle  and  Green  deal  with  particular  things,  — - 
the  storming  of  the  Bastille  and  Elizabeth,  —  the  former  presents  the  features 
of  the  picture  only,  the  latter  the  aspects  of  a  character  only. 

I.  How  much  narrative  do  you  note  in  the  selection  ?  How  far  is  this 
introductory  to  the  sketch  of  character,  how  far  incidental  to  it  ?  Why  is  an 
exposition  of  Elizabeth's  character  important  ?  2.  What  traits  of  character 
does  Green  bring  out  ?  In  what  order  are  these  put  ?  What  is  the  chief 
trait  ?  How  does  Green  work  up  to  this  in  successive  paragraphs?  3.  Do 
any  of  the  traits  seem  inconsistent  with  one  another  ?  Is  Green's  estimate 
of  Elizabeth  the  same  that  one  finds  in  other  Jiistories,  as  Froude's,  or  in 
novels  as,  say,  Scott's  Kenikvorth  ?  4.  Compare  the  method  here  employed 
with  that  of  George  Eliot  in  the  analysis  of  Maggie  Tulliver  (p.  155).  In 
general,  do  you  find  any  correspondence  between  the  methods  of  writing 
employed  in  fiction  and  in  history  ?  Compare  the  narrative  and  historical 
extracts  in  this  volume. 

Bryce  :  A^atiiral  Characteristics  as  Moulding  Public  Opinion. — This 
chapter  illustrates  an  interesting  and  important  characteristic  of_Mr,  Bryce's 


474  NOTES  AND   QUESTIONS 

writings — generalization  from  observation  of  social  facts.  Many  chapters 
of  1716  American  Commonwealth  are  of  this  sort.  The  present  chapter  is 
notable  for  the  number  of  these  generalizations  and  for  the  system  with 
which  they  are  introduced.  This  system  is  shown  in  the  opening  sentences 
of  each  paragraph  and  in  the  following  explanation  of  the  meaning  of  each 
of  these  sentences,  and  in  the  more  or  less  specific  illustrations  and  proofs  of 
the  meaning  which  almost  invariably  come  next.  This  structure  is  as  typical 
of  Mr.  Bryce's  work  as  is  his  generalization  or  as  is  the  figure  of  speech  with 
which  he  ends  his  chapter. 

I.  Test  the  general  observations  of  Mr.  Bryce  by  your  own  experience.  Do 
they  tally  in  all  respects  with  yours  ?  Can  you  aild  instances  ?  2.  Note 
the  number  and  variety  of  the  generalizations.  Can  you  supply  any  general 
remarks  about  the  national  characteristics  of  Americans  which  Mr.  Bryce  has 
not  made  ?  How  are  you  to  test  the  truth  of  your  own  observations  ?  Make 
an  outline  of  the  chapter.  3.  In  what  respects  does  Mr.  Bryce  show  that 
these  characteristics  mould  public  opinion  ?  Does  he  state  his  belief  or 
have  you  to  make  the  inferences  ?  If  the  latter,  what  inferences  ?  Write  a 
short  composition  showing  how  the  enumerated  characteristics  mould  public 
opinion.  4.  In  point  of  structure,  compare  this  chapter  with  others  of  the 
same  book,  as  chapter  95.  Analyze  the  structure  of  several  paragraphs.  How 
far  is  the  structure  the  same  in  each  ?  Write  a  paragraph  of  the  type  of  Mr. 
Bryc^e's  paragraphs.  5.  Compare  the  closing  figure  of  speech  with  that  in 
another  chapter,  as  81,  with  a  view  to  determining  its  aptness. 

Whitney  :  The  Formation  of  the  Yosemite  Valley.  —  In  comparison  with 
Professor  Whitney's  description  of  the  Yosemite  Valley  (page  5),  this  exposi- 
tion is  interesting  as  an  illustration  of  the  different  points  of  view  from  which 
the  subject  is  treated.  The  present  extract  attempts  merely  to  expound  and 
support  the  theory  that  the  valley  is  due  to  subsidence.  This  it  does  by 
showing  that  other  possible  theories  will  not  account  for  the  facts,  whereas 
the  theory  of  subsidence  is  in  keeping  with  them.  The  selection  is  a  good 
specimen  of  scientific  exposition  and  argument. 

I.  State  the  geological  facts  and  principles  which  Professor  Whitney  uses, 
negatively  and  positively,  to  prove  the  truth  of  his  theory.  2.  On  what 
other  subjects  might  expositions  dealing  with  the  Yosemite  Valley  have  been 
written  besides  those  named  on  page  18.  3.  Write  an  exposition  in  support 
of  an  explanation  of  some  phenomenon,  and  give  the  causes  which  lead  you  to 
hold  your  thought  to  be  sounder  than  others  which  might  be  advanced. 
4.  Compare  this  argument  with  that  of  Matthew  Arnold's  essay  on  Gray 
{Essays  in  Criticism:  Second  Series).  Each  is  a  statement  of  the  cardinal 
facts  followed  by  an  explanation  of  the  causes  of  those  facts;  which  is  the 
more  thorough  and  why  ?  Can  you  cite  other  examples  of  the  same  sort  of 
structure  ?  Compare  the  present  selection  with  Tyndall's  explanation  of 
glaciers. 

Huxley  :  C«  a  Piece  of  Chalk.  —  This  classical  piece  of  exposition  and 
argument  is  remarkable,  in  structure,  for  its  skilful  passing  on  from  simple 


NOTES  AND    QUESTIONS  475 

facts  to  more  and  more  complex  and  extraordinary  conclusions,  and,  in  style, 
for  its  avoidance  of  technical  and  unexplained  terms.  It  is  an  admirable 
model  in  all  respects  of  perspicuity  in  presenting  to  an  untrained  audience  a 
complex  body  of  facts  and  conclusions. 

I.  Analyze  step  by  step  the  facts  which  Huxley  states  and  the  conclusions 
which  he  reaches.  By  what  processes  does  he  examine  these  initial  facts  ? 
What  new  facts  does  he  introduce?  How  do  they  elucidate  the  old  and  reach 
out  to  new  ideas  ?  What  is  his  first  point  ?  What  ground  has  he  travelled 
over  in  making  it  ?  2.  By  what  method  does  Huxley  render  his  exposi- 
tion attractive  to  his  listeners  ?  To  what  associations  does  he  appeal  at  the 
start  ?  3.  Do  you  note  any  flaws  in  Huxley's  arguments  and  deductions  ? 
Is  his  work  obscure  in  any  respects  ?  4.  Compare  this  essay  in  point  of 
structure  with  that  of  Ruskin's  The  Pathetic  Fallacy  to  note  a  similar  process 
of  reasoning.  Another  example  is  Arnold's  On  the  Study  of  Celtic  Literature. 
What  differences  do  you  note  in  the  facts  used  ?  In  the  cogency  of  reason- 
ing ?  Do  your  conclusions  suggest  any  generalization  with  regard  to  the 
superior  definiteness  and  accuracy  of  handling  of  facts  and  conclusions  in 
scientific  writing  ? 

Tyndall:  Glacier  Ice. — Tyndall  here  attempts  to  expound  the  processes 
by  which  snow  is  laid  on  high  mountains  and  thence  removed  in  the  form  of 
glaciers.  This  exposition  deals  with  the  changes  which  take  place  in  the 
forms  of  the  material,  and  it  makes  these  clear  by  illustrative  experiments. 
The  style  is  simple  and  unadorned.  The  few  drawings  in  the  original  text  are 
omitted  as  not  strictly  necessary. 

I.  Explain  in  your  own  words  the  changes  which  take  place  in  the  snow 
from  the  time  when  it  falls  until  its  conversion  into  the  moving  mass  of  a 
glacier.  How  does  Tyndall  show  his  theory  to  be  sound?  How  much  of  his 
exposition  is  given  to  description  of  the  phenomena?  How  much  to  illustra- 
tion and  verification  of  his  theory?  2.  In  what  order  does  Tyndall  treat 
his  facts?  Are  all  his  points  clear?  Does  his  division  of  his  subject  into 
effects  and  their  causes  and  the  consequent  subdivisions  of  the  effects  into 
stages  or  progressive  processes  seem  appropriate?  3.  Does  Tyndall  reach 
new  and  suggestive  conclusions  of  an  important  sort  with  regard  to  general 
conceptions  of  the  universe,  as  did  Huxley  in  the  preceding  selection? 
4.  Write  an  explanation  of  some  process,  as  the  circulation  of  the  blood,  or  the 
function  of  seeing. 

Greenough  and  Kittredge  :  Learned  and  Popular  Words.  —  The  selection 
from  Words  and  their  Ways  in  English  Speech  exemplifies  a  rough  but  interest- 
ing classification  of  a  large  number  of  particular  facts.  It  also  states  modern 
and  reasonable  views  on  the  subject  of  usage. 

I.  Do  the  authors  here  teach  you  what  words  to  use  and  what  to  avoid,  or 
do  they  simply  classify  words  as  they  are  found  in  speech  and  writing? 
2.  What  principles  are  deduced  with  regard  to  usage  which  would  guide  you 
in  your  choice  of  words?  Are  these  principles  arbitrary,  or  are  they  based  on 
the  phenomena  presented?      3.  What  does  the  chapter  gain  from  its  wealth 


476  NOTES  AND   QUESTIONS 

of  illustration?  4.  Take  a  body  of  facts  and  separate  it  into  groups.  On 
what  principle  do  you  make  your  division?  5.  State,  in  the  selections  from 
Green,  Bryce,  Whitney,  Huxley,  Tyndall,  and  the  present  authors,  the  prin- 
ciples on  which  the  divisions  are  made.  Are  the  facts  classified  arbitrarily, 
by  functions,  by  progressive  processes,  or  by  other  systems?  Show  how  the 
principle  of  division  is  appropriate  to  the  facts  where  it  is  used.  In  each 
instance  classify  the  same  facts  by  division  from  different  points  of  view. 

Arnold:  Sweetness  and  Light. — This  chapter  from  Culture  and  Anarchy 
is  a  famous  statement  of  a  famous  point  of  view.  It  is  less  an  argument  for 
than  a  persuasive  exposition  of  that  view.  Structurally,  it  amounts  to  an  ex- 
planation of  the  term  "  culture,"  first  somewhat  abstractly  and  then  by  com- 
parison with  different  opinions.  The  style  is  very  characteristic  of  the 
author. 

I.  What  does  Arnold  mean  by  "  culture  "?  How  is  it  opposed  to  "  scien- 
tific curiosity"?  What  does  he  mean  by  "  machinery  "?  Is  this  a  common 
conception  of  the  term?  2.  Do  you  gain  an  exact  notion  of  what  Arnold 
would  have  as  a  substitute  for  "machinery  "?  What  is  Arnold's  conception, 
exactly,  of  the  terms  "  real  thought,  and  real  beauty;  real  sweetness  and  real 
light"  (p.  289)?  Are  your  notions  definite  on  this  point?  Do  you  note  any 
other  terms  of  the  same  sort?  Compare  them  with  "  the  individual  .  . .  goes 
back  "  in  Newman's  essay  (p.  343).  3.  What  is  your  opinion  of  the  soundness 
of  Arnold's  philosophy?  Of  its  applicability?  If  unsound,  is  it  nevertheless 
worthy  and  valuable  as  an  impressive  reaction  against  overmuch  so-called 
materiahsm?  4.  Examine  the  structure  of  some  of  Arnold's  paragraphs,  as 
the  tenth.  What  is  the  place  of  this  paragraph  in  the  essay?  Note  the 
recurrence  of  certain  phrases  in  the  opening  paragraphs.  5.  Write  an  essay 
defining  Arnold's  idea  of  culture.  Write  an  essay  in  answer  to  his  views. 
Explain  what  Arnold  means  by  the  term  "  Philistine." 

Bagehot :  Ornate  Art.  —  The  excellent  piece  of  criticism  from  which  this 
selection  is  taken  deals  with  three  types  of  art,  so  called,  the  pure,  the  ornate, 
and  the  grotesque,  and  it  illustrates  these  by  examples  from  three  poets, 
Wordsworth,  Tennyson,  and  Browning.  Bagehot's  attempt  is  less  to  criticise 
these  poets  as  individuals  than  as  representatives  of  different  classes  of  pro- 
duction. He  is  therefore  deahng  with  the  theory  of  art  rather  than  with 
particular  applications,  and  is  to  a  small  degree  only  concerned  with  questions 
of  good  and  bad  writing. 

I.  What  does  Bagehot  mean  by  the  term  "ornate  art"?  By  the  term 
"pure  art,"  so  far  as  you  are  able  to  ascertain  it  from  the  present  selection? 
What  do  you  infer  with  regard  to  Bagehot's  notion  of  "  grotesque  art "  ? 
2.  For  the  time  being  does  Bagehot  regard  Tennyson  as  in  himself  an  object 
for  criticism,  or  does  he  cite  him  merely  as  an  illustration  of  a  type  of  art? 
Can  you  name  the  poets  belonging  to  this  type?  3.  Does  Bagehot's  criticism 
seem  to  you  to  be  more  or  less  "  subjective  "  or  "  objective  "  than  that  of,  say 
Arnold,  or  Lowell,  or  other  criticism  with  which  you  are  familiar?  In  the 
main,  should  you  call  it  "  constructive  "  or  "  destructive  "  ?      4.    In  particular, 


NOTES  AND   QUESTIONS  47/ 

do  you  find  any  points  at  which,  on  examination  of  Tennyson's  work,  you 
dissent  from  Bagehot? 

Pater:  Charles  La77ib.  —  This  essay  is  a  good  example  of  Pater's  best 
criticism,  and  it  is  an  interesting  illustration  of  the  theory  which  he  ex- 
pounded in  the  preface  to  his  Renaissance :  "The  function  of  the  aesthetic 
critic  is  to  (fistinguish,  analyze,  and  separate  from  its  adjui^cts,  the  virtue  by 
which  a  picture,  a  landscape,  a  fair  personality  in  life  or  in  a  book  produces 
this  special  impression  of  beauty  or  pleasure,  to  indicate  what  the  source  of 
that  impression  is,  and  under  what  conditions  it  is  experienced."  This  prin- 
ciple Pater  abides  by  in  the  essay  on  Lamb;  he  attempts  to  present,  not 
questions  of  good  and  bad,  but  of  quality,  as  it  appears  to  him,  and  to  him 
alone. 

I.  Apply  the  material  which  Pater  uses  in  his  essay  to  the  categories  named 
in  the  foregoing  quotation  :  how  far  does  the  critic  make  use  of  the  events  of 
Lamb's  life,  as  the  episode  of  his  temporary  insanity,  or  his  friendships,  to 
bring  out  the  quality  or  "virtue  "  of  Lamb's  writing?  To  what  extent  is  that 
quality  brought  out  by  analyses  of  Lamb's  literary  work  ?  To  what  sources  does 
he  trace  the  impressions  made  upon  him  by  Lamb?  What  is  the  total  impres- 
sion conveyed  to  the  critic  by  the  author  criticised?  2.  In  what  order  are 
the  impressions,  in  detail,  arranged?  Is  there  any  climax  to  be  observed? 
Are  the  different  characteristics  of  Lamb  different  expressions  of  one  and  the 
same  motive  ?  Why  is,  or  is  not,  the  first  paragraph  a  good  point  of  depar- 
ture? What  is  the  function  of  the  last  paragraph?  3.  In  point  of  style  do 
you  find  it  possible  to  express  Pater's  idea  in  other  and  equally  exact  terms? 
4.  In  general,  what  should  you  say  with  regard  to  the  scientific  or  philo- 
sophical value  of  criticism  which  limits  itself  strictly  to  the  consideration  of 
an  author  as  he  appears  to  the  critic,  —  which  does  not,  in  short,  attempt  to 
discuss  questions  of  good  and  bad  in  literature? 

Ruskin:  The  Pathetic  Fallacy.  —  In  this  well-known  passage,  Ruskin's 
chief  purpose  is  to  expound  a  principle  by  which  the  excellence  or  the  bad- 
ness of  poetry  may  be  determined.  Like  the  passage  from  Bagehot,  it  may 
be  called  constructive,  in  that  there  is  no  attempt  arbitrarily  to  praise  or  to 
condemn  types  of  poetry,  but  rather  to  reason  from  the  common  philosophical 
distinction  between  "subjective"  and  "objective"  and  the  premise,  —  said 
by  Ruskin  to  have  been  previously  established,  —  that  nothing  can  be  ultimately 
good  which  is  untrue,  to  a  principle  which  shall  show  what  truth  and  falsity  are, 
and  under  what  conditions  the  latter  may  l^e  justifiable  or  unwarranted.  The 
major  part  of  the  chapter  is  taken  up  with  illustrative  proof  of  this  principle. 
Incidentally,  the  French  poem  quoted  by  Ruskin  tells  the  story  of  a  young 
girl  who  was  burned  to  death  as  she  was  preparing  to  set  out  for  a  ball;  the 
gist  of  the  tragedy  lay  in  the  fact  that  the  gayety  continued  inexorably.  The 
literalness  of  the  narrative  is  uninterrupted  by  the  "  pathetic  fallacy  "  until 
the  end,  when  the  fire  is  described  as  devouring  without  pity  the  beauty  of 
the  girl. 

I.   What  does  Ruskin  mean  by  the  term  "  pathetic  fallacy"?     What  state 


478  NOTES  AND    QUESTIONS 

of  mind  does  it  describe  ?  Why  should  the  word  "  fallacy  "  be  used  ?  What 
is  meant  by  "pathetic"?  In  what  respects  are  the  three  classes  of  men 
illustrative  of  the  "  pathetic  fallacy  "?  From  what  point  of  view  is  the  classi- 
fication complete?  Why  has  Ruskin  introduced  his  fourth  class  of  men?  How 
far,  from  Ruskin's  point  of  view,  is  it  legitimate  to  use  the  "pathetic  fallacy"? 
2.  What  is  the  difference  between  the  terms  "  subjective  "  and  "objective" 
as  explained  by  Ruskin?  How  does  Ruskin  pass  from  this  to  his  theory  of 
the  "pathetic  fallacy"?  Why  is  this  distinction  necessary  to  his  theory? 
What  further  premise  is  essential?  3.  In  what  respects  do  the  distinctions 
drawn  by  Ruskin  between  "  It  is  "  and  "  It  seems  to  be,"  and  the  consequent 
determination  of  good  and  bad  poetry,  differ  from  Pater's  theory  of  criticism? 
Newman:  Knowledge  and  Professional  Skill. — This  is  an  example  of  an 
orderly,  scientific  exposition,  which  aims  to  present  and  define  a  general  point 
of  view  rather  than  to  classify  a  large  body  of  particular  facts.  Newman  sup- 
ports his  classification  not  so  much  by  evidence  and  persuasion  as  by  clearness 
of  exposition  in  structure  and  illustration,  to  the  end  that  the  situation  may  be 
as  exact  and  reasonable  as  possible.  The  passage  is  characteristic  of  New- 
man's formality  and  stateliness,  but  it  makes  greater  use  of  quotation  than  is 
his  custom. 

I.  What  is  Newman's  idea  of  a  liberal  education?  Of  a  professional  edu- 
cation? How  do  these  ideas  differ  from  your  notion  of  the  terms?  Compare 
his  conception  of  the  function  of  universities  with  that  of  the  universities  with 
which  you  are  familiar.  2.  By  what  kind  of  proof  does  Newman  support  his 
theory?  What  is  the  meaning  of  such  terms  as  "  the  individual  .  .  .  goes  back  " 
(Dr.  Copleston,  p.  343),  and  "raise  the  individual  in  them"  i.e.  his  relations 
to  society  (Mr.  Davison,  p.  345)?  Do  they  or  do  they  not  remain  undefined, 
and  so  assume  an  important  point  at  issue  ?  How  can  such  terms  be  made  clear 
and  determinate?  What  do  you  make  of  them?  3.  How  much  of  Newman's 
chapter  is  taken  up  with  references  and  names  that  are  merely  local  in  interest? 
Is  the  question  which  they  represent,  however,  a  merely  local  one?  4.  What 
is  the  function,  structurally,  of  each  of  Newman's  main  divisions?  How  does 
each  carry  the  argument  forward?  5.  Compare  the  last  section  with  the  close 
of  other  chapters  in  Newman,  as  What  is  a  University  ?  in  The  Rise  and 
Progress  of  Universities.  What  are  some  of  the  most  striking  qualities  of 
his  style? 

Emerson:  The  Ame7-ican  Scholar. — This  famous  address  is  characteristic 
of  Emerson,  in  that  it  contains  the  same  fundamental  principles  which  one 
finds  in  all  his  prose  essays,  and  in  respect  to  his  terse,  stimulating  style.  The 
passage  is  to  be  regarded  as  persuasive  rather  than  expository  or  argumentative, 
I.  What  is  the  point  of  view  in  Emerson's  address?  In  what  respects 
is  it  similar  to  that  enunciated  by  Carlyle,  so  far  as  you  are  acquainted  with 
the  latter's  views?  2.  What  points  does  Emerson  insist  on  as  designating  the 
scholar?  How  does  Emerson's  conception  of  the  liberally  educated  class 
compare  with  Newman's?  With  Arnold's  of  the  man  of  culture?  Why 
.  did  Emerson  think  that  his  ideal  scholar  would  be  peculiarly  characteristic 

V. . 


NOTES  AND    QUESTIONS  479 

of  America?  3.  What  points  of  difference  do  you  note  between  the  style  of 
Emerson  and  that  of  Thomas  Carlyle  or  Thoreau?  What  is  the  general 
difference  in  tone?  Can  you  call  Emerson  an  exact  and  systematic  critic? 
What  do  you  think  Emerson  means  by  such  terms  as  "  nature,"  "  the  soul  en- 
tire se,es  absolute  truth,"  "  out  of  terrible  Druids  and  Berserlvirs,  come  at  last 
Alfred  and  Shakspeare,"  etc.?  Do  they  contain  definite  concepts,  or  suggest 
a  point  of  view?  Cite  any  passages  which  seem  to  you  specially  eloquent,  and 
cive  your  reasons  for  your  selection. 

Thoreau  :  IVhet-e  I  Lived,  and  What  I  Lived  For.  —  The  main  ideas  and 
principles  which  Thoreau  here  enunciates  are  of  the  same  general  sort  and 
of  the  same  character  as  some  special  precepts  of  Emerson  in  the  preceding 
passage,  and  of  Ruskin,  too,  elsewhere  than  in  the  chapter  on  the  PaiheUc 
Fallacy;  but  Thoreau  is  far  less  vehement  and  has  infinitely  more  humor  than 
any  of  the  writers  named,  at  least  as  they  appear  in  the  present  volume.  His 
views  are  expressed  in  a  much  more  off-hand  and  personal  way,  and  are  en- 
livened with  bits  of  his  own  experience. 

I.  State  the  general  points  of  resemblance  among  Carlyle,  Emerson,  and 
Thoreau.  To  what  fundamental  principle  do  they  all  make  appeal  ?  What 
points  of  difference  in  precepts  with  regard  to  the  wisest  manner  of  conduct- 
ing life  do  you  note  ?  2.  What  descriptive  and  narrative  elements  do  you 
observe  in  Thoreau  ?  3.  What  can  you  say  of  Thoreau's  humor  ?  What, 
in  general,  should  you  say  with  regard  to  the  character  of  the  three  men  ? 
Who  has  the  most  seriousness  ?  The  most  eloquence  ?  the  most  persuasive- 
ness ?     Who  has  the  best  style,  and  why  ? 

Lincoln  :  The  Gettysburg  Address.  —  Lincoln's  address  is  to  be  taken  as 
the  simple,  reserved  expression  of  noble  sentiment.  Rhetorically,  the  man- 
agement of  the  sentences  is  noteworthy ;  in  a  large  way,  the  passage  is  the 
classical  and  final  utterance  of  the  idea  for  which  the  Civil  War  was  fought. 

The  Second  Inaugural  Address. — This,  like  the  preceding  address,  is  a 
simple,  stately,  classical  utterance. 

Mill:  On  Liberty. — This  selection  is  the  introductory  section  to  Mill's 
famous  essay,  which  he  regarded  as  "  far  surpassing  "  any  of  his  other  work. 
As  an  introductory  passage  it  clears  the  ground  for  the  more  important  dis- 
cussion to  follow  by  stating  the  sense  in  which  the  term  "  liberty  "  is  to  be 
used,  by  entering  into  a  general  history  of  the  idea  of  liberty,  and  by  ex- 
pounding the  points  to  be  established.  For  the  purposes  of  this  volume,  it 
illustrates,  in  particular,  excellent  introductory  work.  In  addition  to  this 
special  function,  it  is  valuai)le,  though  less  so  than  the  sections  that  follow  it, 
as  an  illustration  of  orderly  structure,  clear  and  vigorous  style,  and  earnest 
rationality  of  purpose. 

I.  Name  the  main  topics  treated  in  this  passage.  Why  is  each  suitable  to 
an  introduction  ?  What  are  the  minor  points  ?  What  is  the  chief  idea  of 
each  paragraph  ?  Draw  up  a  brief  of  the  chapter.  What  points  do  you  infer 
will  be  brought  up  in  the  ensuing  discussion  ?  2.  Should  this  essay  be  called 
argumentative,    expository,    or   persuasive  ?      What    proof   does    Mill    use  ? 


480  NOTES  AND    QUESTIONS 

Thackeray  :  Nil  Nisi  Bonum.  —  This  and  the  following  pieces  in  this 
volume  supplement  those  which  have  preceded,  and  furnish  further  specimens 
for  analysis  and  illustration.  They  are  usually  more  personal  than  the  former 
selections,  but,  though  consequently  more  whimsical,  contain  descriptive,  nar- 
rative, expository,  argumentative,  and  persuasive  elements  differing  from  the 
others.  The  hst  might  be  prolonged  indefinitely  by  such  names  as  Landor, 
Hazlitt,  and  Lowell,  but  the  five  authors  who  follow  are  perhaps  as  well 
known  for  style  as  any  who  could  have  been  chosen,  and  each  of  the  pieces 
is  characteristic.  The  present  passage  is  a  good  example  of  persuasive  work, 
the  force  of  which  is  in  its  generous,  sympathetic  tone.' 

I.  To  what  extent  may  the  sentiments  and  ideas  herein  expressed  be 
deemed  critical  ?  Do  they  attempt  to  fix  the  value  of  either  Irving  or 
Macaulay,  to  state  their  quality,  to  indicate  good  and  bad  points,  or  to  put  the 
reader  into  a  sympathetic  frame  of  mind  ?  Does  he  deal  with  the  achieve- 
ments of  his  subjects  or  with  their  characters  ?  What  facts  does  he  bring  out  ? 
Why  should  these  facts  appeal  widely  to  a  group  of  "  average "  readers  ? 
2.  What  are  the  main  qualities  of  Thackeray's  style  ?  Analyze  some  of  the 
chief  phenomena.  Compare  the  passage  with  the  selection  from  Pendennis 
(page  144).     Do  you  note  any  points  of  similarity  ? 

Carlyle:  Dante. — The  passage  presents  a  highly  personal  opinion  and 
is  hence  persuasive  rather  than  strictly  critical ;  it  essays  to  arouse  our 
sympathies  in  Dante,  and  the  type  of  hero  which  he  represents.  The  ideas' 
and  the  tone  are  characteristic  of  the  author  :  Carlyle's  endeavor  is  to  penetrate 
the  husk  and  come  close  to  the  soul  of  things,  and  the  style  has  the  marks  of 
the  author's  vehemence. 

I.  Summarize  the  passage  so  as  to  bring  out  Carlyle's  main  ideas  on  Dante. 
How  far  is  Carlyle  concerned  with  external  events  ?  To  what  does  he 
subordinate  the  narrative  of  Dante's  life  ?  What  is  the  main  idea  of  this 
narrative  ?  2.  In  what  respects  is  Dante,  in  Carlyle's  opinion,  to  be  called 
a  "  hero  "  ?  With  what  does  Carlyle  compare  the  spirit  which  animated  the 
poet  ?  Of  what  things  do  you  judge  Carlyle  to  approve  ?  What  do  you 
infer  of  his  view  of  life  ?  In  what  respects  is  it  similar  to  that  of  Emerson 
and  Thoreau  ?  3.  Name  some  of  the  conspicuous  traits  of  Carlyle's  sen- 
tences and  words  ?  Do  you  note  any  singularly  chosen  words  ?  What  of 
his  copiousness  ? 

Lamb  :  Mrs.  Battle's  Opinions  on  Whist.  —  Lamb  has  depicted  the 
character  of  Mrs.  Battle  through  her  opinions  on  whist  and  her  manner  of 
playing  the  game  and  in  no  other  way.  By  these  apparently  simple  means 
he  manages  to  suggest  the  traits  which  go  to  make  up  the  old  gentlewoman's 
personality,  and  finally  produces  a  complete  and  pretty  complex  impression 
of  her.     The  literary  quality  of  the  essay  is  unique. 

I.  What  is  the  chief  impression  of  the  character  of  Mrs.  Battle  ?  By  what 
details  is  the  impression  conveyed  ?  What  is  the  prevailing  effect  of  each 
paragraph  ?  Describe  Mrs.  Battle  in  your  own  words.  2.  What  do  the 
closing  paragraphs  add  to  the  feeling  of  the  essay  ?     What  can  you  say  of 


NOTES  AND    QUESTIONS  48 1 

Lamb's  humor  ?  Of  his  pathos  ?  3.  Name  some  of  the  quah'ties  of  Lamb's 
style  ?  Does  it  deal  in  general  ideas  or  in  particular  images  ?  Is  it  simple 
or  complex  ?  Suggestive  or  literal  ?  Uniform  or  varied  and  whimsical  ? 
How  far  does  the  essay  tally  with  Pater's  criticism  ?  Read  several  of  Lamb's 
essays  and  see  how  far  they  convey  an  impression  on,  and  how  they  exemplify 
Pater's  idea. 

De  Quincey:  The  Vision  of  Sudden  Death. — This  is  characteristic  of 
De  Quincey  in  several  ways:  the  discursiveness;  the  indirectness  of  approach; 
the  love  of  distinctions,  as  in  the  exposition  of  the  views  entertained  by 
different  races;  the  giving  of  all  the  minute  circumstances  of  the  story,  as 
the  crafty  statement  of  his  own  condition,  the  deliberate  description  of  the 
place  of  the  catastrophe,  and  the  long-pondered  horrific  vision;  the  rapidly 
running  and  the  cumulative  sentences,  and  nicely  turned  balances,  the 
sonorous  ending,  the  copiousness  of  vocabulary,  and  the  display  of  rather 
erudite  words. 

I.  Examine  the  structure  of  the  piece  to  see  how  the  main  idea  of  sudden 
death  is  continually  kept  before  the  reader ;  enumerate  the  particulars  on 
which  De  Quincey  dwells.  Tell  the  story  in  your  own  words.  What  does 
De  Quincey  add  to  the  simple  narrative  account  ?  How  do  those  details 
render  the  catastrophe  impressive  ?  2.  Enumerate  the  chief  characteristics 
of  De  Quincey's  style  as  they  have  to  do  with  words,  sentences,  and  paragraphs. 

Stevenson  :  An  Apology  for  Idlers. — The  attempt  of  this  essay  is  to  deal 
in  a  light,  easy,  persuasive  way,  appropriate  to  the  subject  and  the  point  of 
view,  with  a  subject  of  much  moment.  It  is,  of  course,  merely  a  winning 
sketch  rather  than  a  solid  argument.  The  fundamental  idea  —  that  one  is 
bound  to  get  as  much  happiness  from  life  as  possible  —  is  the  same  as  in 
The  English  Admirals,  Aes  Triplex,  El  Dorado,  and  A  Christmas  Sermon, 
by  the  same  author;  but  the  application  of  the  principle  is  as  different  as  the 
style  is  less  grandiloquent. 

I.  What  points  of  similarity  do  you  note  between  the  main  idea  of  this 
essay  and  that  of  Thoreau  ?  Is  the  essay  to  be  taken  as  dogma,  as  persuasive 
argument,  as  the  statement  of  a  point  of  view,  or  as  a  merely  suggestive 
protest  ?  2.  How  may  this  argument  be  answered  ?  3.  Analyze  Stevenson's 
style.  What  are  its  chief  characteristics  ?  Its  most  noteworthy  effects  ? 
What  should  you  infer  with  regard  to  the  personality  of  the  author  ?  4.  Why 
is  such  a  piece  as  this  called  an  essay  ? 


21 


AMERICAN  PROSE. 

SELECTIONS, 

WITH   CRITICAL   INTRODUCTIONS    BY  VARIOUS  WRITERS  AND  A 
GENERAL  INTRODUCTION. 

Edited  by  GEORGE  RICE  CARPENTER, 
Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  English  Composition  in  Columbia  University, 

8vo.     Cloth.     Price  $1.00. 


Professor  Willis  Boughton,  Ohio  University,  Athens,  Ohio  :  —"Th^rch  no 
other  book  like  it.  1  am  sure  that  you  are  supplying  a  want  on  the  part  of  teach- 
ers." 

Professor  James  M.  Dixon,  Washington  University,  St.  Louis,  Mo.  :  — 
"  The  value  of  '  American  Prose  '  seems  to  me  singularly  well-timed,  and  the  work 
has  been  efficiently  done.  The  criticism  is  sympathetic,  incisive,  and  modern.  I  am 
delighted  with  the  book." 

The  book  has  its  ulc  alike  for  the  general  reader  and  for  the  student.  It  brings  to 
both,  within  a  very  moderate  compass,  not  only  illustration  of  American  prose,  but  a 
body  of  thoroughly  competent  and  discriminating  criticism.  Among  the  well-known 
American  writers  who  have  contributed  critiques  to  this  volume  are  Professor  Trent, 
Professor  Munroe  Smith,  Barrett  Wendell,  Edward  Everett  Hale,  Jr.,  Colonel  Hig- 
ginson,  Brander  Matthews,  Professor  Richardson,  Professor  Charles  Eliot  Norton, 
Professor  R.  E.  Gates,  Mr.  Howells,  and  John  Fiske. 


STUDIES  IN  STRUCTURE  AND  STYLE. 

BASED  ON  SEVEN  MODERN   ENGLISH  ESSAYS. 

By  W.   T.   BREWSTER,   A.M., 
Tutor  in  Rhetoric  and  English  Composition  in  Columbia  University, 

With  an  Introduction  by 

GEORGE  R.   CARPENTER, 

Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  English  Composition  in  Columbia  University. 

12mo.     Cloth.     $1.10,  net. 


Boston  Daily  Advertiser  :  —  The  author  has  used  rare  discrimination  in  selecting 
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modern  literature,  and  that  they  should  serve  as  models  to  the  student.  The  analy 
sis  of  structure  and  style  in  these  volumes  is  most  able,  and  the  book  will  be  found  a 
.Host  valuable  one  as  a  text  in  the  higher  American  institutions  of  learning. 

The  Beacon  (Boston) : —  Professor  B-^ewster's  manual  is  intelligently  planned,  and 
the  selections  made  are'admirable.  .  .  .  The  advantage  which  such  a  work  possesses 
over  the  old-fashioned  text-book  of  rhetoric  are  too  obvious  to  require  comment. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

64-66  FIFTH   AViSNUE,   NEW    YORK. 
Chicago.  Boston.  San  Francisco.  Atlanta. 


ELEMENTS  OF  RHETORIC  AND  ENGLISH 
COMPOSITION 

By  GEORGE  R.   CARPENTER 

Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  English  Composition  in  Cohimbia  University 

First  High  School  Course.    Cloth.    i2mo.    60  cents 
Second  High  School  Course.    Cloth.     lamo.    50  cents 
First  and  Second  High  School  Course  in  one  volume 
Cloth.     i2nio.     $1.00. 

"  I  shall  take  every  opportunity  to  recommend  it  to  teachers  in  preparatory 
schools.  I  especially  admire  the  clearness  and  sanity  with  which  Professor  Car- 
penter has  presented  this  difficult  subject."  —  Professor  F.  N.  ScOTT,  University  of 
Michigan,  Ann  Arbor,  Mick. 

"I  am  delighted  with  its  possibilities  for  helping  the  pupil  to  grow.  The  plan, 
the  style,  the  choice  of  selections  and  the  exercises  —  all  are  excellent,  and  I  am 
convinced  that  it  is  the  only  book  now  in  the  field  which  meets  the  needs  of  our 
Freshman  Class."  —  Madeleine  Fish,  High  School,  Quincy,  Mass. 


PRINCIPLES  OF   ENGLISH   GRAMMAR 

FOR  THE  USE  OF  SCHOOLS 
By  GEORGE  R.  CARPENTER 

Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  English  Composition  in  Columbia   University 

1 2  mo.    Half  leather.    75  cents 

"  In  his  '  Principles  of  English  Grammar'  Professor  Carpenter  has  reached  the 
high-water  mark  in  the  making  of  high-school  text-books  on  this  subject.  In  class- 
room use  it  ought  to  prove  a  very  satisfactory  work.  The  selection  and  arrangement 
of  topics,  and  the  clearness  and  general  simplicity  of  exposition  are  among  its  most 
noticeable  features.  The  evidences  of  the  author's  wide  linguistic  scholarship  and 
his  use  of  the  historic  method,  as  well  as  his  citation  of  examples  of  correct  usage 
from  the  best  authors  will  give  to  teachers  strong  confidence  in  his  book  as  a  safe 
and  satisfactory  guide."  —  CHARLES  S.  RAMSAY,  Principal  of  High  School,  Fall 
River,  Mass. 

"  For  intending  college  students  the  work  is  to  be  given  preference  over  all  others 
that  we  have  seen,  because  it  presents  the  theory  or  system  of  modern  English  in 
accordance  with  the  results  of  philological  research.  Students  will  have  nothing  to 
unlearn  if,  at  a  later  period,  they  enter  upon  the  study  of  historical  English."- — 
yournal  of  Pedagogy. 

"  Professor  Carpenter's  is  essentially  a  new  grammar.  In  its  emphasis  upon  the 
historical  development  of  language,  in  its  recognition  of  usage  as  a  real  standard, 
in  the  educational  soundness  of  its  methods,  it  reflects  the  characteristics  of  the  late 
English  scholarships.". —  Educational  Review. 


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STATE  NORMAL  SQiyyL, 

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